


Angel in the Window

by themaybedoctor



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale & Madame Tracy Friendship (Good Omens), Aziraphale is extremely cute and doesn't know it, Background Newt/Anathema, Blow Jobs, Bullying, Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Consent Issues, Crowley definitely knows it and cannot deal, Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Drinking, Emotional Sex, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Homelessness, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Insecure Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Nice Beelzebub (Good Omens), Nice Gabriel (Good Omens), Not In My House, Panic Attacks, Shy Aziraphale (Good Omens), Smut, and not graphic or detailed but it is there, but nobody's bodyshaming, but the ending is going to be SOFT as HECK, everyone is friends and they care about each other a lot, involving kissing only, mention of body image issues, mentions of - Freeform, not by any character who appears in person in the story, okay there's some less-than-soft stuff in the middle, strictly in the past, this will be very soft and have a very happy ending I promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:28:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 66,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26043499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themaybedoctor/pseuds/themaybedoctor
Summary: Aziraphale has the best job a young bookworm could ever hope for—he works the evening shift at an independent bookshop, just a stone's throw away from Tadfield College, where he's only a few months away from getting his degree. He likes the location in Tadfield's cosy downtown, the friendly regulars, and his coworker, Newt. But most of all, he likes having the key to the biggest treasure trove of books he's ever seen. Aziraphale knows that he's not going to make friends sitting in the dark shop at night, alone with a book and some chocolate, but that's all right. He's not lonely while he has a book, which means he's hardly lonely at all. Really.Crowley works at a record shop, and he's got the biggest crush on the cutie working at the bookshop next door. Whose name he doesn't even know, because he's too awkward to ask. At least nobody's noticed. If his co-worker Anathema found out, he'd never hear the end of it.A story about bravery, misunderstandings, acceptance, and love. Will update twice a week :)
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 415
Kudos: 386





	1. Aziraphale

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!!! Welcome to my college bookshop AU! In addition to being a love story, this fic is also a love letter to the bookstore where I worked part-time in college. It's still hands-down the best job I've ever had. I hope you all enjoy this fic as much as I enjoyed writing it :)

At long last, the clock ticked to ten o’clock. Aziraphale strolled through the bookshop, smiling at the last errant customers in the bookshop and gently informing them that it was closing time. He waited a moment after the last one drifted out before locking the front doors and flipping the sign, sighing in satisfaction at the _clunk_ of the lock. He loved his job, but there was nothing better than having the bookshop to himself. 

He hauled the ancient hoover out of the cleaning closet and began to hoover the carpets. As he trailed around the shop, he sang to himself, as he always did. Tonight, it was selections from RENT. Earlier in his tenure at the bookshop, he had forgotten to check for customers before beginning his performance, and earned an unexpected round of applause after his rendition of “Music of the Night.”

When at last the carpets were clean, he shut the hoover away, counted out the till, and gathered up the bin-bags. The bookshop shared their dumpster with all the other shops on their block, including a wine shop, a shop selling exercise equipment, and a record shop. Occasionally he met the other places’ employees on the way there, making their own nightly pilgrimages to the dumpster. Most were friendly enough to exchange pleasantries with, but by the end of a long shift Aziraphale was quite ready to not interact with other human beings.

At last, he turned out the lights and locked the back door. He turned on his heel and wiggled a happy wiggle. This moment was something he looked forward to the whole day. He retrieved the bar of chocolate he’d bought earlier from his coat pocket, then headed straight for the fiction section and searched for the book he’d had his eye on all day—an illustrated version of _Cyrano de Bergerac_. He pulled it carefully out, marked where it went by turning the book next to it sideways, and hurried over to his favorite reading chair. He couldn’t very well turn on a light—if he did that, idiots knocked on the door to be let in, as if the posted hours, “Closed” sign, and locked door weren’t enough of a hint. But there was just enough light from the streetlights outside that he could sit by a window and read, undisturbed, to his heart’s content.

This was Aziraphale’s sacred ritual for every closing shift. If he didn’t have anything going on early the next day, he would often read until the wee hours of the morning. A few times he had stayed nearly all night, unable to put down a particularly riveting book. He had read _Me Before You_ in one sitting, left at four in the morning, and cried all the way home. He’d made his way through everything Jane Austen and Shakespeare had ever written, practically died laughing at Bill Bryson, gobbled up Ursula Le Guin, and gave up partway through Edward Gibbon (he kept meaning to finish _Decline and Fall_ one of these days, but never seemed to get around to it) and many others besides. The owner probably would not have approved, but Aziraphale figured the chances were slim that she was going to show up at 11:30 pm and catch him at it. It was perfect. For a precious few hours, the bookshop was his own quiet, happy little world.

Aziraphale had read _Cyrano_ before, but it was the kind of story of which one never tired. He nibbled at his chocolate, wiped his hands carefully on a paper napkin, and turned the page. He’d just reached the part where Cyrano fights Valvert while composing a ballade, could practically see the strokes of the great man’s sword as he feinted and thrusted—

CLACK! CLACK! CLACK!

Aziraphale jumped nearly out of his skin. The book flopped to the floor and Aziraphale whipped his head around to the source of the noise.

“Oh, shit! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you!”

A tall, dark-haired young woman with glasses stood outside the window, her hand at her mouth and her eyes wide. Her accent was American—an international student? Aziraphale took several gasping breaths, his hand on his chest. “It’s fine,” he said, in between gulps of air. “I’m afraid we’re closed, my dear.”

“Oh, I know!” she said, grinning. “I work at the record store next door; maybe you’ve seen me around? I was just going to invite you to come read in there. So you don’t have to sit in the dark.”

Aziraphale smiled shakily. “Oh, no thank you. But that’s very kind of you.”

“No problem. Hey, do you want to get sushi at that place down the street with me and my coworker after we close? We’ll be done in, like, twenty minutes.”

Aziraphale’s mind raced. He did love sushi. But he’d have to share it with two people that he didn’t know at all, and what if they didn’t like him and it was awkward and… _oh no, I've waited too long to respond!_ _Say something, anything!_

“Oh, yes! Why not!”

She beamed. “Awesome! I’ll come get you when we’re done. See you in a few!” She turned around and strode back towards the record shop.

Aziraphale let out a long breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. His heart rate was not quite back to normal, so he sat for a minute and waited for it to resume its normal tempo. It would be fine, he told himself. If he was miserable he could always claim he had early class and bow out. Wait, tomorrow was Sunday. Oh well. He’d think of something if it came to that.

His eyes fell on his book, lying in a heap on the ground. He inhaled sharply and picked it up—not damaged, thank goodness. He resumed reading, but with one ear tuned now to any sounds coming from outside.

Fifteen minutes later, he had reached the part where Cyrano vows to defend Ligniere from a hundred swordsmen when he heard footsteps come down the pavement, then stop at the front door.

“ _Don’t_ knock like that, Anathema,” said a new voice. “You’re wearing a million rings; it’ll sound like a firecracker going off.”

“Oh, right.” A softer knock this time. Aziraphale carefully replaced _Cyrano_ , shrugged on his coat, and headed up front.

Anathema, for that must be her name, waved and grinned at Aziraphale as he fumbled with his keys. Next to her stood a tall thin person with dark red hair and all-black clothes, his hands shoved into the pockets of his black leather jacket. Aziraphale quailed internally. He had seen the red-haired man around before—he had occasionally come in to the bookshop and bought a thing or two, but never said any more than was absolutely necessary for the transaction and never smiled. He was certainly attractive—sharp cheekbones and jaw, and a long-limbed, swaying grace to his movements that suggested athleticism. Aziraphale had been intimidated by him before when he only had to interact with him for two minutes, and now he was about to go to dinner with him. _Oh, Lord._

He managed to get himself outside and lock the door behind himself. “Ah, hello. I don’t think I caught your name before?”

“Oh! I’m Anathema Device, and this is Crowley. Anthony Crowley.” Anathema stuck her hand out for shaking, and Crowley lifted his in greeting.

“Hey.”

Aziraphale steeled himself. “I’m Aziraphale. It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Aziraphale! Wow, that’s such a cool name!” said Anathema.

Aziraphale’s eyebrows went up. “Goodness! You got it right the first time! That almost never happens. I usually have to teach it syllable-by-syllable.”

Anathema looked pleased. “When you have a weird name you know how annoying it is when people constantly butcher it, so you try not to be that asshole for anyone else.”

“Can we get going?” said Crowley abruptly, crossing his arms. “It’s bloody cold out here.” Aziraphale eyed him warily. He didn’t seem terribly happy to be here.

Anathema rolled her eyes. “Only because you have zero insulation on your whole body.” Aziraphale subconsciously crossed his arms over his own stomach, which was definitely not lacking in insulation.

Crowley grunted and began to head towards the sushi place. “C’mon, I’m hungry.”

\---

They found a little booth and ordered. Aziraphale could have eaten anything and everything on the menu, so he let Anathema and Crowley choose.

When the two of them had finished arguing about which rolls they wanted, Anathema sat back and trained her attention on Aziraphale.

“So! You’re a student at the college, right?”

“Oh, yes,” said Aziraphale. “Fourth-year, studying English. As you might have guessed.”

“No way! An English major, working at a bookstore!” said Anathema, making a face of exaggerated surprise. Aziraphale laughed and relaxed a tiny bit.

“We’re students too, same year. Try and guess what our majors are!”

Aziraphale grimaced. He was terrible at this game. “Um… well, let’s see, for you…record store…music?”

“Nope!” said Anathema, popping the p. “Doubling in women’s studies and history. Guess his,” she said, nudging Crowley, who glared at her.

“Oh, I’m awful at this. Ah, um… astrophysics?”

Crowley raised a single eyebrow. “Plant sciences.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale desperately tried to think of something to say about this and came up blank.

“You should see his garden! It’s soooo pretty, especially in the—” Anathema cut off abruptly and huffed at Crowley. Aziraphale suspected he had kicked her under the table. He didn’t pursue the subject, but he wished he could hear more.

“So. Anyway. What were you reading when I scared the shit out of you earlier?”

Crowley laughed. It was a surprisingly nice laugh. “You backhanded the window with your rings, didn’t you?”

“Maybe,” Anathema muttered. “I said I was sorry.”

Aziraphale smiled at her. “It’s quite all right, my dear. I was reading _Cyrano de Bergerac_ , have you read it?”

“Sounds like the kind of thing I might have been assigned to read in school and SparkNoted instead. No offense, I know I’m an uninspired pleb. What’s it about?”

Aziraphale bounced a little. “Well! It’s set in France in the 1640s…”

He was still in full flow about the themes of _Cyrano_ when their rolls arrived. Anathema seemed genuinely interested and asked questions every time he paused for breath. Aziraphale almost forgot Crowley was there; he seemed to be listening but he didn’t interject.

“Okay, hold that thought,” said Anathema. “Which one is this?” She pointed at a roll with shiny gray stuff on top.

“I believe it’s the eel, my dear,” said Aziraphale, peering at it.

“Eugh. You two can have that one.” She snapped her chopsticks apart and went for the salmon.

Aziraphale had just done the same and was about to start eating when he noticed Crowley staring at the paper wrapper his chopsticks had come in—the kind that has instructions on how to use chopsticks.

“Oh, do you need help?” said Aziraphale. He kicked himself. _Don’t make him feel like an idiot._

Crowley was silent for a beat. “I might,” he muttered. “Never used these before.”

“What!” said Anathema, her mouth full. “I’ve seen you eat takeout Chinese before. How have you never used chopsticks?”

Crowley’s shoulders tensed up. “No law that says you can’t eat Chinese food with a fork.”

“But it’s against the spirit of the enterprise!”

Aziraphale cut back in. “It’s quite easy, my dear. Here, let me show you. You put the top one like this, in between these two fingers, and the bottom one like this…”

Crowley tried it, dropped a chopstick, and hissed in frustration.

“May I?” said Aziraphale, holding out his hands toward Crowley’s. Crowley froze for a split second, then held his hand out for Aziraphale to correct his grip. His hands were nice, Aziraphale noted. Cool, rough, and strong-looking, with long, elegant fingers. _Stop it_ , he told himself sternly. _For all you know, he’s straight. Well, maybe not. Those trousers are awfully tight. But still out of your league._

He finished arranging Crowley’s hand around the chopsticks and let go. Crowley clicked them together experimentally. He reached for a piece of the eel roll, his brows knitted in concentration. Aziraphale clapped a little when Crowley managed to pick one up. “Oh, excellent! You’ve got it!” But he spoke too soon. The bite was inches from Crowley’s open mouth when it made a leap for freedom from the chopsticks and landed in Crowley’s lap.

Anathema cracked up. Aziraphale tried valiantly to keep a straight face as Crowley scooped the bite off of his trousers, his face burning red. It took several more tries and three more dropped pieces before anything made it into his mouth. By then, Crowley was finally laughing at himself along with Anathema and Aziraphale. Aziraphale was definitely not noticing how handsome Crowley looked when he laughed, thank you very much.

Eventually, the plates were empty save a few stray grains of rice and fish roe. Aziraphale leaned back in his seat and let out a contented sigh, folding his hands just above his belly. He found that he had no wish to make his excuses and was even regretting that the night would end. He smiled wryly to himself. _Funny how these things turn out._ They continued to talk over the remains of their dinner, or at least Aziraphale and Anathema did. Crowley occasionally made a comment, but for the most part he simply sat and listened. Finally, the hostess politely kicked them out so the restaurant could close.

They stood outside, shivering because it really was cold now.

“This was nice,” said Aziraphale, trying not to look at Crowley too much as he said it. “I wouldn’t mind doing it again sometime.”

“Careful, we’ll take you up on that,” said Anathema. “See you later, Aziraphale!”

Crowley shuffled in place and raised one hand again. “Bye.”

Aziraphale bade them goodnight and began to head home. When he was out of their line of sight, he allowed himself a happy bounce and a smile. The cold might sting his face and hands, but it couldn’t touch the bubble of warmth welling up inside him.


	2. Crowley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's hear from Crowley The Mess, shall we?

“Oh my God. You are the most useless gay of all the useless gays. Did you forget how to talk?”

Crowley rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He wished he could put on his sunglasses, but he looked weird wearing them at night. “For fuck’s sake, Anathema, haven’t you put me through enough tonight?”

Anathema made an indignant noise. “Hey! I just did you a huge favor. You should be thanking me.”

“What! I never asked you to do anything!”

“No, but I can tell when my services are needed,” said Anathema, with dignity.

“I said he was cute one time!”

They had reached Crowley’s car. Anathema went to the passenger side and turned to face Crowley. A wicked grin crept over her face. “That was just the tip of the iceberg.”

“Oh, whatever.”

Anathema crossed her arms over her chest. “You take out the garbage at the same time every single shift we have together. Just about the same time the bookstore closes, in fact, even though we don’t close until after they do. Now, I’m sure it’s just a coincidence, but it seems like you’re hoping to run in to—”

Crowley ripped open the door to his car. “Bloody hell, Anathema. Get in the car before I decide to leave you here.”

Anathema climbed in, still grinning evilly. “And then, there’s the fact that you’ve gotten everyone with a birthday in the past few months something from the bookstore…”

“Shut up! Shut up, shut up! Why do you have to be so goddamn observant!” Crowley peeled out of the car park and began to drive towards Anathema’s flat.

Anathema sat in self-satisfied silence and waited.

“Thank you,” said Crowley, through gritted teeth.

“You’re welcome,” said Anathema, without smugness. “He’s so nice. I like him. And if he’s not gay I’ll eat my shoe.”

Crowley laughed in spite of himself. “What makes you say that?”

“The bow tie. Among other things. The bow tie is a dead giveaway though.”

Crowley laughed harder. “Maybe he’s just a straight guy who cares about his appearance.”

Anathema snorted. “No straight man spends more than five minutes on his appearance unless he’s trying to get laid. Ask me how I know that.”

“My imagination works just fine, thanks.”

Anathema laughed, and they lapsed into companionable silence. Crowley breathed a sigh of relief. Then—

“When he touched your hand, I thought you were going to faint. Like a Victorian lady in a novel.” Anathema fanned herself with her hands.

Crowley made a strangled noise. “Can you just. Stop. Please. For the love of all that is unholy.”

“Okay, fine. I’m done torturing you.”

“Forever?”

“No, just for now. If I didn’t torture you it would mean I didn’t like you.”

“I feel privileged,” said Crowley dryly. “Seriously though. No more interventions, okay? Or commentary, if you can possibly stop yourself.”

Anathema sighed. “All right. Just…you know you don’t have endless time, right? You don’t have millennia to spend thinking about what to do.”

Crowley slouched lower in his seat. He did know. Graduation loomed closer every day. “Yeah. Carpe diem and all that shit. You don’t have to tell me.” 

“You need to, like…give him a gay signal. How does that work, anyway? Is there a secret gay handshake that I don’t know about?”

“No,” Crowley snorted. “This is why we have gay clubs. And Grindr. And…gay cruises. So you don’t have to squint and guess.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.” Anathema went quiet again. Crowley stepped on the gas. They were almost to her flat, if he could just get there before she got going again…

“I know! We’ll get you a _bow tie_ —”

Crowley swerved hard (maybe a little harder than necessary) to avoid a cat, making Anathema yelp and clutch her seat.

“Jesus Christ! What the hell was that for?”

“Cat. Missed it, don’t worry. Look, will you just drop it? We’ll see him again, and it’ll come up in conversation at some point.”

Anathema nodded seriously. “For sure. We’ll find a way.”

 _We_. Crowley smiled to himself as he turned the corner onto Anathema’s street. When he reached her flat, he pulled halfway up onto the pavement and stopped with a jerk.

“Right. Here’s your flat. Get out of my car. And…thanks, I guess. Again.”

Crowley couldn’t see the smirk on Anathema’s face as she got out of the car, but he could hear it in her voice. “Goodnight, Crowley.”

\--

With Anathema out of the car, Crowley’s mind was finally free to wander. She hadn’t been wrong—when Aziraphale had touched his hand, he’d felt like he was about to spontaneously combust. Aziraphale’s hand had been warm and soft and so gentle. It had been wonderful to simply sit near him and listen to the sound of his voice.

Crowley had noticed Aziraphale for far longer than he would ever admit to Anathema—starting his very first week working at the record shop that August. It was impossible _not_ to notice him. He had the brightest blonde hair Crowley had ever seen, almost white, and he dressed like a university professor from 1930. Bow ties, collared shirts, crisply pressed trousers, waistcoats in the summer, and sweater vests in the winter. He was on the short side, broad and round about the middle, with the kind of face that seemed to be made to smile. Crowley got into the habit of looking in as he passed the bookshop’s front windows, trying to catch a glimpse of Aziraphale as he went by. He didn’t think much of it. For what reason do beautiful things exist but to be admired?

And then, on a cold, drizzly night in November, something happened to change his mind. He was heading to a nearby pub to meet some friends and drown his sorrows from a recent exam, fists shoved deep into the pockets of his leather jacket, when he’d heard a muffled sound that could have been either sobbing or laughter. He’d stopped and looked around for the source, but saw no one. All the shops had closed for the night. After a few seconds, he realized that it was coming from inside the darkened bookshop, so he’d stepped up to the window, intending to peer in.

But that turned out not to be necessary. Right on the other side of the glass was Aziraphale, book in hand, laughing so hard that he seemed barely able to breathe. Helpless peals of laughter burst out of him like a stream tumbling down a mountain, broken occasionally by gulps for air. As Crowley watched, transfixed, Aziraphale would get to the point almost of calming down, wiping his eyes and shaking his head, then he would start reading again and go right back to laughing fit to burst. What Crowley could see of his face had an expression of such radiant joy that he looked almost ethereal.

Crowley didn’t think he had ever seen someone laugh that hard, and definitely not at print on a page. He was dying to know what Aziraphale was reading, but he couldn’t quite make out the title without getting any closer. He stood in shadow, and Aziraphale was half-turned away from the glass, which was good. Crowley would not have liked his first impression on Aziraphale to be of a gaping weirdo staring at him through a window at nearly midnight. Eventually, he picked his jaw up off the ground and started walking towards the pub again.

He’d been distracted for the rest of the night.

He hadn’t known Aziraphale’s name. The bookshop wasn’t the kind of place that forced their employees to wear nametags. But Crowley had felt, after that night, that he needed something to call him. Something that captured that glowing happiness, that sweetness and light he’d seen shining out of that smiling round face. And so, just to himself, Crowley had called him “Angel.”

\--

When Crowley got home, he headed straight for the shower and turned it up as hot as it would go. Nothing like being boiled alive to relax after a long day, right? He stood in the scalding spray, trying (and failing) not to dwell on what Anathema had said. He cringed. Bloody hell, had he really been that obvious? He’d thrown himself in Aziraphale’s path more times than he could count but never had the guts to break the ice. He was never this stupid when he liked somebody, ever. This was ridiculous. He stood there, his head pressed up against the wall of the shower, until the water started to get cold. Hopefully his flatmates wouldn’t need the shower for a while. He got out with a sigh, dried off, and threw on some joggers and a t-shirt, then flopped into bed.

What had Aziraphale thought of him? It was hard to tell. He was the kind of person who was probably nice to everyone whether he liked them or not. Which only made him more likeable. Crowley mashed his face into the pillow. Motherfucking hell in a handbasket. He was so screwed.


	3. Aziraphale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little bit more background and buildup for this chapter! Still had a lot of fun writing it, though :)

Aziraphale woke up late on Sunday, as he usually did. He always felt a little guilty about it; his parents were the early-rising type and had never let him sleep in past eight, even on weekends. His mother’s idea of sleeping in was getting up at seven, and his father loved saying things like, “Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise!” Aziraphale loved them, but he also loved being able to relax.

He donned a dressing gown and slippers and made his way to the kitchen, yawning. Madam Tracy, the older lady from whom he rented his room, was sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of tea and a book on tarot reading.

“Good morning, dear,” she said. “Did you sleep well?”

“Oh, yes, very well.”

“Did you get up to anything fun last night?”

Aziraphale chuckled. She was always asking him that. He had been renting his room from Tracy for a few years now, and they had become rather close. He’d always found older people easier to get along with than people his own age. Tracy was constantly telling him to get out and find other friends while he was in college, but he’d never gotten past the surface level with most of them.

But today he could give her the answer she wanted to hear.

“Yes, I did.”

She gasped. Aziraphale smiled and ducked his head, busying himself with filling the electric kettle and turning it on.

“Really! Where did you go, what did you do?”

“A couple of people at the record shop—you know, the one just down the street from the bookshop—they invited me out for dinner. Nothing too exciting.”

She clasped her hands together. “That’s wonderful! Are they nice? Are they your age?”

“Yes on both counts. I’m…glad I went,” Aziraphale said. And he was. He hadn’t had such an enjoyable night in a long time. He told Tracy about Anathema and Crowley, but avoided describing Crowley too much; Tracy knew he was gay and would sniff out his budding attraction in a hot second if he wasn’t careful.

“You must return the favor, you know,” said Tracy sternly. “They won’t know that you like them if you don’t.”

“Oh my goodness. Fine,” said Aziraphale, pouring boiling water into a mug. “I’m not an alien, you know. I know how human social niceties work.”

“Hmm. I think you forget sometimes.”

“Or maybe I just don’t care,” said Aziraphale, grinning at her as he opened a box of teabags.

“No man is an island,” said Tracy. “Everybody needs some companionship now and then.”

“Well, I’m a peninsula then.”

Tracy laughed. “I’ll leave it up to you, love. But you know you can’t spend time with me forever. Eventually I’ll go senile and stop being such a scintillating conversationalist.”

“Nonsense. You’ll live forever and be sharp as a tack for eternity,” said Aziraphale, sitting down at the table with his tea. “And be stunningly beautiful the whole time.”

She smacked his arm. “Flatterer.”

Their conversation turned to other things. Tracy had a reading later that day. She always told him about them in advance, so he didn’t wander through by accident while someone was having a tearful conversation with their dead mum. When he didn’t have anything better to do he often listened in; Tracy did fantastic voices. Aziraphale told her about the papers he was writing and complained a bit about his professors. (“Not everything has symbolism, for goodness’ sake. Sometimes blue bedsheets are just blue bedsheets.”) Tracy commiserated and laughed in all the right places, then moaned a bit herself about her most ridiculous clients. (“I think her husband must have been quite happy to die, if only to get away from her.”)

When got to be nearly noon, Aziraphale stood up and stretched. “I must be going, Tracy dear. I’ve got an appointment with Gabriel today.”

“Well, you can’t be late for that. He’ll hem your trousers too short out of spite.”

Aziraphale headed back to his room to get dressed. Gabriel was his tailor. Aziraphale had been going to him ever since he started attending Tadfield College. When he’d been in secondary, he’d dressed just like everyone else, but his clothes were always one or two sizes too big, in order to hide his too-short, too-fat body. His hatred for it grew every year as he gained more weight and watched his peers get taller, while he stayed the same height he’d reached at age thirteen. 

Then one day, in the depths of his despair, he’d found a book in the school library on confidence for men. There was a load of nonsense in there about how to attract women and bend others to your will, which Aziraphale ignored, but there were a few pearls of decent advice. The one that had really stuck with him was to have clothes tailored to fit. The secret, the book explained, of rich and famous people looking put together all the time, was that they had everything professionally made or altered to fit. Even if you were completely ordinary in every other respect, you couldn’t fail to look good in high-quality, well-fitted clothes.

Aziraphale didn’t care about becoming rich or famous, but he did want to appreciate what he saw in the mirror in the morning. So after graduation, he got a summer job (as a supermarket bagger, ugh) and saved every penny he could, against his parents’ protests that he ought to relax and enjoy his time off. When he got to college, he went straight to Gabriel’s tailoring shop and informed him that he was looking to replace his entire wardrobe. Gabriel had talked him out of spending all his money at once, but over time he had helped Aziraphale do exactly that. It had been wonderful. Trousers no longer pooled at his feet. Shirts no longer stretched uncomfortably across his chest and belly. Gabriel took into account details that he’d never even thought of, like the slope of his shoulders and the curve of his back. Aziraphale had told him that he was a genius, and it was no hollow compliment.

Aziraphale decided the weather was nice enough to walk and set off. Tracy lived in town, and Tadfield wasn’t very big, so he rarely needed to drive. He liked walking, and he didn’t mind public transport, either. It was a great way to people-watch, and one can’t read a book while driving. He stopped at a little café on the way and had some really excellent ham-and-brie sandwiches, then headed in to Gabriel’s shop.

The bells over the door jingled. Gabriel’s head popped out from the back. “Helllooooo! Oh, Aziraphale! Be just a minute, all right?”

“Of course.”

Aziraphale sat on the little sofa in the front of the bright, sunlit shop and picked up a magazine, waiting for Gabriel to get done with his current customer. Gabriel looked a lot like he ought to be on the cover of one of those magazines—tall, chiseled, and handsome as any model. Aziraphale had been prepared to walk straight out of the tailor’s shop the first time he’d laid eyes on Gabriel, just from sheer intimidation. His guard had been up for the whole first visit, waiting for the condescension and sly remarks about his appearance and manner of speech.

But none had come. Gabriel was aggressively body-positive, to the point that Aziraphale suspected he’d once been the exact opposite and had it beaten out of him. Like Tracy, he’d quickly picked up on the fact that Aziraphale was gay (most people did, it seemed to be printed on his forehead in ink everyone but him could see) and been aggressively supportive about that, too. Gabriel was very happily married, and constantly giving Aziraphale advice on how to find a nice boy. None of it had worked yet, but Aziraphale appreciated the thought.

Gabriel finished with his previous customer—a middle-aged man who looked as if his face was carved permanently in a grumpy expression—and flashed Aziraphale one of his brilliant smiles.

“A-ziraphale! Always a breath of fresh air! So good to see you!”

He ruffled Aziraphale’s hair. Aziraphale laughed. Gabriel was always over the top.

“Breath of fresh air, that’s a new one. How bad was the last customer?”

Gabriel’s handsome face twisted into a grimace. “Terrible. I’ll tell you about it while you try your stuff on, here…” He disappeared into the back and came back with the jacket, trousers, and two shirts he’d fitted Aziraphale for on his last visit. “There you go!”

Aziraphale gathered it all up and hung it on the hook in the dressing room, closing and locking the door carefully behind him. There was really no need, but still. He laughed and made agreeing noises as Gabriel picked his last customer apart on the other side of the door. The man had taken forever to choose a design and swatches for his new suit, then thrown a fit about how long it would take for Gabriel to get his order ready. He was still grumbling about it when Aziraphale came out and climbed up on the little stool Gabriel brought out for him to stand on while he adjusted the fit of the trousers.

“Don’t you know how valuable his time is?” Aziraphale said, trying not to move as Gabriel pinned and tucked the trousers. “It’s very rude of you not to just miracle everything he wants into existence.”

“Oh, yes, very rude of me,” Gabriel grumbled through his mouthful of pins. He straightened up and patted Aziraphale on the back. “There. All done.”

Aziraphale walked gingerly back to the dressing room and began to take off the trousers. It was hard to do it without a) knocking a pin loose or b) getting stabbed.

“How are _you_ doing, Aziraphale?” Gabriel said through the door as Aziraphale slipped back into his own trousers. “I’ve been yakking about myself nonstop! You gotta tell me when I do that. My honey is always reminding me to cut it out.”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Aziraphale murmured. “You know me.”

“Found anyone yet? Nice boy in one of your classes? You were telling me about someone last time you were in here, the one with the purple hair…”

Aziraphale came out in his own trousers and one of the new shirts. “I think this one’s too tight in the shoulders. And no.”

“Mmm…yep, you’re right. What happened? Didja talk to him? Nothing ventured, nothing gained!”

“He had a girlfriend,” Aziraphale mumbled. He had actually listened to Gabriel’s advice and tried inviting the purple-haired boy out for coffee, and been turned down with embarrassing politeness. The boy—Evan, Aziraphale hadn’t even known his name before coming up to him—had even tried to get to know him as a friend, but he’d fled with his tail between his legs instead of let that happen. He sat on the other side of the lecture hall from that purple head nowadays.

“What!” Gabriel cried, pausing his measuring. “I didn’t even know they sold purple hair dye to straight people.”

Aziraphale giggled. “I don’t think it’s against the law. And he could have, you know. Gone either way. I didn’t stick around long enough to find out.”

“That’s true. Found anyone else since then? Gotta move on! Aziraphale, the rolling stone!”

Aziraphale snorted, but without even meaning to, his mind did jump to someone else. A tall, lean, handsome someone, with long red hair and a slouching saunter. He blushed a little, but kept his mouth shut.

“No, no one else, nobody at all. Sorry to disappoint.”

Gabriel finished with his adjustments and gave him a comically sad frown. “That’s too bad. You know, I remember, before I met my sweetie…”

Aziraphale smiled. Gabriel’s spouse was his favorite topic of conversation. He encouraged Gabriel to keep talking about them for the rest of the visit, as he often did. Aziraphale had no idea what Gabriel’s spouse looked like or even what their name was, but at this point he probably could have figured out who they were in minutes if he’d met them, from all the details Gabriel had given him over the years. Aziraphale knew where they’d grown up and gone to school, the foods they did and didn’t like, all about their struggles with eczema, everything down to their preferred thermostat setting. The only reason he didn’t know their name was because Gabriel preferred to call them by a wide assortment of nicknames: honey, sweetie pie, love, baby, cutie, and sugar, among others. It was adorable.

He was rather sorry to cut Gabriel’s happy monologue short when the fitting was done. Truly happy couples were so rare, especially after so many years married, and the reminder that solid, lasting love wasn’t a myth after all always lifted Aziraphale’s heart. He waved to Gabriel as he headed out the door, still smiling.

“Goodbye, Gabriel. Say hello to your sweetie for me.”

Gabriel beamed. “I will! See you next week, ‘Ziraphale!”

Aziraphale laughed to himself as he strolled down the street. Ah, love. He had a feeling Gabriel would actually remember and tell his spouse hello from a total stranger.

“They’re lucky, whoever they are,” he mumbled to himself.

But was it really luck? Aziraphale wasn’t sure. They were probably just as attractive as Gabriel, and the world treated attractive people differently than it did ordinary-looking ones. Gabriel saw the world through the eyes of a handsome man, and therefore his ideas about love and attraction were skewed far from Aziraphale’s reality. Gabriel did have a nice personality, but there was no visual barrier for anyone to get past in order to see it. In fact—and Aziraphale knew this from firsthand experience—he could have been very not-nice indeed and still found plenty of people willing to give him a shot. Or excuse his behavior towards people that he thought were lesser than him.

And that was the thing, wasn’t it, Aziraphale thought as he wandered vaguely homeward. You couldn’t tell what someone was like just by looking at them, and attractive people were born with special licenses that allowed them to get away with being mean. Not all of them used it, of course, but Aziraphale had been on the receiving end of the cruelty of beautiful people too many times to ever stick his neck out in front of one. An image of himself asking Crowley out on a date and being unkindly rejected flashed through his mind, and he shuddered. Absolutely not.

He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. What on earth had gotten into him? He had briefly met someone he thought was handsome and his mind had gone straight down the rabbit hole. There was no need for any of this. He would return the favor of asking Anathema and Crowley to dinner, they would have a lovely time, and perhaps he’d end up with some new friends. That was all there was to it.

Aziraphale reached the house, went up the front walk, and had his hand on the front doorknob when he heard Tracy communing loudly with the spirit realm inside.

“Drat.”

He was going to have to sneak in through the back.


	4. Aziraphale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt is finally here! Things happen! Plans are set in motion!

The wind blew Aziraphale’s hair wildly about as he pulled open the door to the shop. It was Saturday again, five minutes to the start of his shift. Normally he liked to come early and read, but he’d been reluctant to leave the house in this weather. He shut the door firmly behind him and relaxed into the warm stillness of the shop, smiling as he took off his coat. Walking into the shop always felt like coming home.

He waved to Newt as he walked by the sole register in the middle of the shop and got a distracted half-wave in return. Contrary to what Tracy seemed to think, Aziraphale did have a few friends his own age, and the best of these was Newt. Newt was a third-year student at Tadfield who had come to work at the bookshop a year after him. He was even more shy and awkward than Aziraphale, but they had spent enough time chatting during slow business days that Aziraphale almost forgot how quiet Newt had been in the beginning. When they had the shop to themselves, they could talk whole afternoons and evenings away.

Aziraphale made his way around the woman who was arguing with Newt about the price of the book she was buying and headed into the back. They didn’t have to clock in—the owner wasn’t much for technology—but She always seemed to know if they were late anyway. Aziraphale hung up his coat, smoothed his hair back down, and walked back to the counter, where Newt was attempting to change the roll of receipt paper in the clunky old manual register. The same tetchy customer looked on, muttering and sighing.

“Flip it over,” Aziraphale murmured. “It feeds in the other way.”

Newt huffed in frustration and did as Aziraphale said, then closed the register and poked the receipt button tentatively. The machine whirred and obediently printed out the receipt. Newt sighed in relief as he handed the woman her book and glared at her as she stalked away.

“Thanks.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, still _sotto voce_. “Is She here?”

“Nope, She’s out,” said Newt at normal volume, glancing up to the owner’s desk. In the back of the bookshop, a set of carpeted stairs led up to a wide, balconied loft. On one side of the stairs, there was a cosy reading area, surrounded by bookshelves. On the other side, the owner kept a small office. Newt and Aziraphale hated this, because it meant the owner could sit there and peer down at them as they worked, like a fussy, irritable deity. [1]

“Good,” said Aziraphale, who promptly plunked down onto the folding stool they kept behind the counter. (The owner hated to see them sit. It “made them look unproductive.”) “How are you, Newt?”

“I’m all right. Early Islamic history is killing me, but medieval Europe is fantastic.” Newt was reading history with a minor in computer sciences.

“How can you make early Islamic history boring? That’s fascinating stuff.”

“You find a total wanker to teach it, that’s how,” said Newt, rolling his eyes. “He just wants to hear us repeat his own opinions back at him. Makes writing papers easy, but what’s the point?”

Aziraphale grimaced. “Been there. Common hazard of studying the humanities, I think.”

Newt sighed. “Yeah, I s’pose. How are you, then?”

“I’m well, thank you. Oh, I met the people who work next door the other day! At the record shop, I mean. I keep forgetting to tell you. They had me out for dinner.”

Newt looked sharply at him. “What? Which people?”

“…tall redheaded bloke, girl with long dark hair and glasses?”

Newt’s eyes got huge. “What’s the girl’s name?”

“Anathema. Why?”

“Uh, well. I, ah. I’ve seen her around.”

Aziraphale started to grin. “And?”

“Well, I thought. I thought she was, pretty…pretty, uh, fit.”

Aziraphale’s smile spread. “Did you now. Maybe you’d like an introduction, then?”

Newt looked at him sideways. “What’s she like?”

“She’s lovely. Very friendly. American, but you probably already knew that,” said Aziraphale, enjoying himself immensely.

“No, I…no, I didn’t. American. Huh.”

“And she’s also reading history,” said Aziraphale innocently.

“Holy shit,” said Newt. “Would you, uh, would you…”

“What will you do for me?”

“I’ll…I’ll…uh—”

“Newt, I’m just kidding,” said Aziraphale, patting him on the arm. “Of course I’ll introduce you. I mean to return the invite anyhow, so I’ll just bring you along next time.”

He swallowed down his trepidation. He’d been tossing around the idea of inviting Anathema and Crowley out again—both of them, of course, definitely both of them—and here was a final reason to gather up his courage and ask.

“In fact, ah…Are you busy tonight?”

\--

The owner never made an appearance, which made for an easy day for Newt and Aziraphale. They took the register in turns, while the other re-shelved books and straightened up the store. The children’s section was Aziraphale’s baby in particular. He could spend hours happily re-alphabetizing the books and arranging displays just so. It was the kind of work that left one’s mind free to roam. Normally, Aziraphale liked this aspect very much. He had written entire papers in his head while he reorganized, then gone home and knocked them out on his laptop in an hour flat.

Today, though, he could have done without it. His brain was very insistent on playing out every possible scenario of what could happen between himself and Crowley. No matter what Aziraphale did, he couldn’t shut it off. It was like being chained to a chair in a movie theater that only showed a movie he hated, over and over. Finally, it was time for Newt to head out, and Aziraphale took the register.

Newt grabbed his coat and started towards the door, then stopped.

“You’ll text me, then?”

“Yes. They close a little after we do, so I’ll go over once I’ve locked up and ask.” Aziraphale leaned on the counter. “Don’t forget to wear deodorant.”

Newt looked daggers at him. “You’re such a bastard. I’ll have you know I wear deodorant every day, whether I’m seeing a girl or not.”

Aziraphale gasped and pretended to search his pockets. “Ah, I’ve forgotten to bring your award.”

Newt stomped out. “Bye, Aziraphale.”

“Bye, Newt!” said Aziraphale cheerily.

Luckily, business picked up later in the evening, so Aziraphale had less opportunity to gnaw on what-ifs. A couple of his favorite regulars came by to pick up specialty book orders, and he chatted with them as he rang them up. As they talked, a group of laughing, chattering young teenagers came in and claimed the reading area in the loft. The owner would have kicked them out after it became clear they weren’t going to buy anything, but Aziraphale didn’t mind. There were certainly worse places for teenagers to be.

They were the last people in the store when ten o’clock came by. Aziraphale headed up the stairs. “Hello, my dears!” he said. “I’m afraid we’re closing, but we open at noon tomorrow.”

They—three boys, one girl—pretended to grumble but stood up to go. “Are you sure you can’t stay open for an extra hour?” said one of the boys. “Or just give us the keys and you can go home.” He flashed Aziraphale a winning smile and shook his golden-brown curls out of his face.

Aziraphale laughed. “I do rather value my job, so I’m afraid not.”

“Too bad,” said the boy. “I like this place.”

“So do I,” said Aziraphale. “Just for future reference, I wouldn’t hang out here when that office over there is occupied. I don’t mind you being here but the owner can be rather strict.”

The boy’s eyes narrowed. “Noted,” he said. Aziraphale thought suddenly that he would not like to get on this boy’s bad side, young as he was.

“I’m Adam, by the way,” the boy said. “And this is Wensleydale, Pepper, and Brian. You’ll probably be seeing us again.”

Aziraphale introduced himself in turn, then followed the little group to the door to lock it behind them. He went through all his closing-time rituals, perhaps a little slower than usual, but in what seemed like no time everything was done and he stood alone in the dark bookshop. He took a deep breath. It was time.

Aziraphale had walked by the record shop hundreds of times, but never been inside. He stood outside and peered in, pushing his hair out of his face as the wind tossed it around. The walls were covered in posters for bands he’d never heard of. A few people milled around inside, picking through bins of records. In the back, he could see Crowley’s tall, thin frame, leaning over a big stack of them. His back was to the door, but it couldn’t possibly be anyone else. Who else had hair that thick and fire-red? It was coiled into a bun at the nape of his neck, loose and careless. Little wisps escaped out the sides, and as Aziraphale watched, Crowley reached up to tuck one of them behind his ear before returning to his sorting.

An image, a fantasy really, popped unbidden into Aziraphale’s head—himself, reaching up to free Crowley’s hair from its messy bun, slipping the hair tie onto his wrist as he carded his hands through the silky strands. In his mind, Crowley leaned his head back to allow Aziraphale to reach the roots, sighing as Aziraphale ever so gently loosened the knots. When they were all gone, leaving behind a shining-smooth red waterfall of hair, his fantasy self carefully tied it all back up again—in a neater bun, perhaps, or a braid. Crowley would look so lovely with a braid. Aziraphale rubbed his fingers together, imagining the feel of it in his hand.

Then he realized what he was doing and burned with embarrassment, even though no one could have possibly guessed what he was thinking about.

“My goodness,” he muttered to himself as he walked towards the door. “No more of _that_ , thank you very much.”

As he grasped the handle, he put the thought firmly out of his head. This was a night for friends, for reality, not silly fantasies. With a nod and a deep breath, he pushed open the door and walked into the warmth of the shop.

\--

[1] I didn’t have to make any of this up. The loft, complete with reading area and office, was a very real feature of the bookstore where I used to work. Loved the reading nook, hated the office. My coworkers and I actually used to mutter “God is watching,” to each other when we saw the owner sneak in through the back, as a codeword, but I thought that was a little too on-the-nose to include. 😂

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *strums guitar* Long-haired man...  
> I don't know why, but I like female-presenting Crowley all short-haired and spiky, and male-presenting Crowley with long flowing tresses. (But all Crowleys are valid, of course.) Anyone else the same? What are your favorite versions? 
> 
> Sorry this chapter is so short! They'll generally get longer as we go; this is one of the shortest ones. Thank you for all your kudos and lovely comments ❤️️❤️️❤️️


	5. Crowley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of something wonderful :)
> 
> CW: Description of an event involving death, not gory but maybe not a pleasant mental image. Stop at "...exact opposite of what he'd expected," and pick back up at "Crowley realized his mouth was hanging open."

Crowley heard the bell over the door, but didn’t look up from the records he was sorting. The owner of the record shop was the laid-back type, so they didn’t have to do shit like greet everyone who walked in with a fake smile. Their patrons were the type who would talk to you first if they wanted to talk, and Crowley liked that just fine.

He continued to sort records when heard footsteps approaching from behind him, then stop. Whoever it was cleared their throat, and Crowley rolled his eyes. He turned around and found himself about a dozen centimeters away from Aziraphale, who was just about to tap him on the shoulder.

“Fuck!”

Crowley stumbled backwards and almost tripped over another pile of records. This was the closest he’d ever been to Aziraphale, and it overloaded his brain with stimuli. Crowley could have counted the individual curls on his head. Random impressions imprinted themselves on his brain—long eyelashes, blonde like Aziraphale’s hair, a clean flowery smell, the very beginnings of lines on Aziraphale’s forehead.

“My goodness! Are you all right?” said Aziraphale, stepping hastily back. “I apologize. I guess it’s my turn to scare someone this time.”

Aziraphale was wearing a patterned sweater vest today, over a light blue shirt and his usual neatly-pressed khaki trousers. He looked like the personification of a comfortable armchair and a crackling fire. Crowley squashed down the impulse to touch him to see if he was as cozy as he looked.

“It’s fine,” Crowley muttered. “Hi. Just closed for the night?” _As if you didn’t have the bookshop’s hours memorized._

“Oh, yes,” said Aziraphale, playing with a button on his sleeve. “I was wondering, actually, if you’d…” He looked around the shop. “No Anathema today?”

“Nah. Just me tonight.”

“Ah. Well, I was wondering if you would like to do dinner again,” Aziraphale said with a tentative smile.

Crowley’s heart started to beat double-time. Dinner with Aziraphale? Just the two of them? Was he dreaming?

“But of course you’d probably want to wait for Anathema to be here so she could come, too,” Aziraphale continued.

Crowley stopped himself from saying no, he would happily kick everyone out right now and go without her. “Let me ask her if she’s got anything going on tonight,” he said instead, pulling out his phone.

Aziraphale’s smile widened. “Okay.” He looked around the shop, taking it in. “This is…nice.”

“Feel free to look around,” said Crowley, trying not to look frantic while he texted Anathema. Aziraphale made an affirmative noise and began to wander about the shop.

Crowley: Aziraphale just asked us to dinner again

Anathema: That’s great!!!! Just the two of you????

Crowley: No

Crowley: Both of us. Me and you

Anathema: Oh. Tell him I’m deathly ill or something

Crowley: Why???

Anathema: So you can be alooone. 😉

Crowley: He wants you to come. Said we could wait until you were available to do it

Anathema: Huh. Okay.

Anathema: I can come and third wheel if you want then

Crowley: Yes. Please

Anathema: Be there in 20 😊

Crowley smiled in relief. “She’s coming,” he called to Aziraphale, who was poking around in the classical section.

Aziraphale looked up. “Wonderful! Oh, I forgot to mention. My coworker was interested in coming as well. Newt. Is that all right?”

Crowley was less than all right with it, but he wasn’t about to say so. “Sure.”

Aziraphale bounced a little. _Adorable_. “Excellent! I’ll tell him then. I’ll wait for you at the bookshop. I stay after closing most nights, and read a little after hours.” He laughed nervously, as if he’d said too much.

Crowley tried to look as if this was new information. “Oh, really. Nice. Okay, I’ll come by and grab you when we’re all locked up.”

When Aziraphale left, Crowley tried to go back to sorting the records, but he found that he could no longer stand in one spot. He grabbed the broom from the back and started to sweep the shop so he could have an excuse to pace back and forth. He swore someone was stopping time every time he looked away from the clock. When it was finally closing time, he was practically jumping up and down behind the last customers as they slowly headed out.

Crowley went through with his closing duties with a speed that would have put the Flash to shame. Anathema let herself in while he was counting the till.

“Where’s Aziraphale?” she said, looking around.

“At the bookshop,” Crowley said when he’d finished counting the bills. “He has a friend coming and we’ll meet them there.”

“Oh, that’s perfect!”

Crowley looked at her askance. “How?”

“Four people, two conversations. I can talk to the friend and you can talk to Aziraphale.”

“What if the friend is an idiot?” Crowley said. “It’s a bloke. Newt, I think he said his name was.”

Anathema assumed a big-eyed, vapid expression. “Oh, wow. That’s so interesting, Newt. Please tell me more! You’re so incredibly fascinating, Newt.” She batted her eyelashes.

Crowley laughed. He finished up, turned out the lights, and they walked out together.

“Chill out, dude.”

“I _am_ chill.”

“Sure you are.”

Aziraphale and Newt were waiting outside the bookshop for them. Crowley took Newt in and struggled not to laugh. He was the most awkward-looking person Crowley had ever seen. Button-down shirt and khakis like Aziraphale, but they didn’t seem to fit his long, skinny body quite right. Wild curly hair and a highly unflattering pair of glasses completed the picture. Aziraphale made introductions and Newt got somehow even more awkward when he was introduced to Anathema. _Definitely straight, then._ Anathema was the kind of pretty that made straight men forget what the word “dignity” meant. Crowley had pretended to be her boyfriend a few times to get rid of customers who hung around the shop just to look at her. He thought of what Anathema had said in the shop about hanging on to Newt’s every word and smirked.

They ended up in a little Indian place that Aziraphale remembered was open late. Anathema, like the brilliant wingwoman that she was, waited until Newt and Aziraphale had sat down so she could sit across from Newt. Crowley resolved right then to buy her a drink the next time they went to the pub. Or three.

After they ordered, Anathema sallied forth.

“So, are you an English major too, then?” she said to Newt.

Newt froze for a moment when he realized she was talking to him, like a deer in the headlights. “Um, no. I’m reading history.”

“Oh, wow! Me too! What are you taking right now?”

“Oh. Um, cool. Uh. I did pre-Qin to Song dynasty Chinese history last semester,” Newt mumbled, chewing on a hangnail. “This semester I’m taking the class on the Yuan through the end of the Qing…”

Crowley tuned out and turned to Aziraphale.

“How was…your shift?” he said. He cringed at how lame it sounded, but he had to start somewhere.

“Oh, lovely, as it usually is. I know I can’t work at the bookshop forever, but I do really love it.”

“What’s so great about it?”

“Well, there’s all the books, for one,” said Aziraphale, smiling. “But the customers are wonderful, too.”

“Really?” said Crowley. “It doesn’t hurt your soul to sell your precious books?”

Aziraphale laughed. “If we sold anything one-of-a-kind, it would be a different story. First editions and signed copies and all that. I’d probably go out of my way to stop people from buying anything. But everything we have is new and there are lots more where they come from.”

He paused. “Most people who come in to the bookshop are happy to be there. And they’re the kind of people who like reading, which in my opinion makes for much more refinement and politeness in one’s personality.”

Crowley folded his arms and tilted his head. “I don’t like reading.”

Aziraphale looked as though Crowley had kicked a dog.

“I’m just kidding,” Crowley said, before Aziraphale could open his mouth. “I like reading. Probably not the same stuff as you, but I do like it.”

Aziraphale scrunched up his face. “That was…”

“Mean?” said Crowley, grinning.

“Yes.”

“Yeah, it was. Should have seen the look on your face, though.”

Aziraphale laughed. His eyes scrunched up a little at the corners when he smiled, Crowley noticed. “How about your job, then?”

“I like it well enough. The owner’s cool. The worst thing that ever happens is the occasional pretentious dickhead who thinks they’re hot shit and know everything there is to know about insert-genre-here.”

“How did you get the job? There must have been some competition.”

There had been a _lot_ of competition. Crowley hadn’t expected to land the job at all. He’d applied anyway because he hated working in fast-food, which was all he’d been able to get up until then. He’d been dying to quit for ages, but couldn’t afford to be unemployed for longer than a few days. He had practically skipped out of work on his last day at the fast-food place. Not that Aziraphale needed to know that. He shrugged.

“I was able to bond with the owner a bit during the interview. Similar tastes in music. Turned out we both like Queen and Velvet Underground.”

Aziraphale chewed the inside of his lip. “Oh, very nice.”

Crowley tilted his head. “You’ve never heard of either of them, have you?”

“…no,” Aziraphale admitted. “My family are not…bebop people.”

Crowley laughed incredulously. “Bebop? Who still says that?”

Aziraphale wilted. “I don’t know. Just me, I guess.”

 _Oh, shit. No, no, no_. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” said Crowley hastily. “Shit, now I sound like a pretentious dickhead.”

Aziraphale laughed and un-wilted. “I have a lot of peculiar sayings that I’ve picked up from my family. I’ve been trying to rid myself of them for years, but every so often I say something odd without knowing it and everyone laughs.”

“No, it’s cute,” Crowley said, without thinking. _Whoops. Fuck_. “So what’s your family like, then?”

“Religious, as you can probably tell,” said Aziraphale. “They’re not the bigoted type, for which I’m very grateful, but I grew up extremely sheltered.”

“What do you mean, as I can probably tell? You don’t scream ‘religious’ to me.”

“Oh, you’re right. I’m not, not anymore. I mean my name. It’s the name of an angel. One of the really obscure ones because it had to be _unique_.” Aziraphale said, rolling his eyes.

Crowley stared. An angel. Just like his nickname for Aziraphale, before he’d known his name. It was too perfect. He shook himself out of his reverie. “It must get misspelled on everything. And I can’t imagine trying to teach a five-year-old how to write that.”

“It’s an uphill battle,” said Aziraphale wryly. “It does have its perks, though. I’ve learned that anyone who shortens it or nicknames me without asking unfailingly turns out to be a git. Nice little litmus test. What about you? Why do you go by your last name?”

“Because there were five Anthony’s in my class, and I didn’t want to shorten it,” said Crowley, shrugging. “Got used to it and now here we are.”

“It suits you,” said Aziraphale, smiling. “Crowley.”

Crowley’s stomach did a strange shiver-y thing. He looked away before he could melt from the warmth of that smile. “Thanks.”

Suddenly, he remembered Anathema. He’d left her high and dry with Newt. He tuned back in to make sure she didn’t need rescuing, and found himself listening to a conversation that was the exact opposite of what he’d expected.

“—so as she’s walking to the neighboring village, she sees a random horse just wandering around. And then a cow. And then another horse, and so on and so on.”

“Okay,” Anathema said, eyes narrowed. “Kinda weird. Go on.”

Newt pushed his glasses up. “And she reaches the village, and everything’s quiet. Way too quiet. There aren’t any people walking around, even though it’s almost midday. At this point, the poor woman is starting to freak out. There’s no market. No sounds of anyone working or talking. She starts shouting, “Is anyone here?” and she hears a baby start to cry in one of the houses.”

“And?”

“She runs around trying to find the baby, and when she finally does, she ends up climbing in through the window to get to it, because it’s obvious that no one else is there. It looks like it hasn’t been taken care of in at least a day, so she feeds and changes it and takes it with her while she continues to wander around, trying to figure out what the hell happened.”

“Aliens?”

Newt laughed. “Nope. So finally, she gets to the far edge of the village, and she starts to smell something funny. Something…dead.”

Anathema’s eyes widened. “No.”

Newt grinned. “Oh, yes. And for some reason, she keeps walking, and as soon as she gets past the houses and onto the village green, she sees where the smell is coming from. Do you want me to stop?”

Anathema looked slightly green, but shook her head.

Newt paused for dramatic effect and leaned back. “The whole village was there. Every single person, young and old, was lying on the ground dead, but they weren’t scattered around or in heaps. They were laid out in a perfect circle, around a pile of half-burned wood and brush with a big stake in the middle. And the woman stares at it, totally confused, and then she realizes it looks just like a—”

“Witch burning!” Anathema shouted. Heads turned to look at her, and she covered her mouth. “Sorry. It was a witch burning, wasn’t it?”

“Yes!” Newt said excitedly, not seeming to mind at all. “It turned out that the woman they’d tried to burn had caught wind of what was going to happen, and instead of running away she’d rigged herself to blow with a load of nails and gunpowder under her skirts. Killed the whole lot of them in one go, including the arsehole “witch-finder” they’d hired to ferret her out. Isn’t that incredible?”

“Good for her,” Anathema breathed. “What was her name? Did they record her name?”

“Right?! I’d have to dig up the account again to be sure, but I think it was…”

Crowley realized his mouth was hanging open and snapped it shut. He stole a glance at Aziraphale, who was looking at Newt in much the same way he’d been looking at Anathema—eyebrows halfway up his forehead and eyes like saucers. As he watched, Aziraphale remembered himself and smoothed his expression back to its usual pleasant calm, then caught Crowley’s eye and grinned. He very deliberately turned his whole body to face forward as if to say _Let’s leave them to it._

Crowley was happy to do so. In fact, as they picked up where they left off, Aziraphale leaning forward to put his pretty face in a cute dimpled hand and smiling like Crowley was the most fascinating person in the world, he couldn’t remember when he’d ever been happier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone else wonder what happened after Agnes took everybody out like that? I always thought it must have been a hell of a shock for the people in the village over.


	6. Aziraphale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trials and tribulations of modern dating.

Every so often, the bookshop hosted book readings with local authors. The bookshop wasn’t very big, so all the available space was taken up with displays and bookshelves. This meant that Newt and Aziraphale had to play Tetris with shelves and tables in order to clear a space large enough for people to sit. Aziraphale loved book readings. The books were rarely the polished, professional kind, but it warmed his heart to see the authors proudly showing off the fruit of their labor, even though they’d never be the next J.K. Rowling or George R. R. Martin. It was his firm opinion that the pleasure of creating should belong to everyone, not only to internationally famous artists or authors.

“So, you seemed like you had a good time on Saturday,” said Aziraphale to Newt as they set up for an evening book reading the following Wednesday.

Newt grinned sheepishly. He and Anathema had been so absorbed in conversation that their food had been stone-cold when they finally started eating. “Yeah. You could say that.” He put his shoulder on one of the wheeled bookcases and began to push it towards the wall.

Aziraphale laughed and headed to the basement to bring up the folding chairs. He’d periodically tuned back in to Anathema and Newt’s conversation, and every time he did they were on a totally different era of history. He had caught snippets of a passionate argument about the impact of Napoleon on modern Europe, a long diatribe from Anathema about the impact of witch persecution on medicine and women’s rights (witches and witchcraft seemed to be a special interest of hers), and a discussion of the intricacies of harem politics in the later Ottoman Empire.

“What was it like, meeting her after only looking from a distance for so long?” he said when he returned with an armful of chairs.

Newt stopped pushing the bookcase and looked thoughtful. “Better than I’d ever imagined.”

“How so? Was she prettier up close?”

Newt busied himself with the bookcase again. “Um, well. Yeah, but that’s not really it. Let me think for a minute how to put it.”

Aziraphale took the opportunity to grab some more chairs. When he got back up, he started to set them up in the area Newt had just cleared of bookcases. “Got it yet?”

“I think so,” said Newt, adjusting a bookcase flush against the wall. “When I was just looking at her through the window on my way in to work every day—shut _up_ , Aziraphale—it was like looking at a painting. Nice to look at, but it’s not dynamic. You can’t look at a painting forever; you’ll get sick of it eventually because it’s static. But when you talk to someone who has a beautiful and interesting personality, you can’t get tired because there’s always something new there. The physical becomes almost irrelevant.”

Aziraphale had stopped setting up chairs and was looking at Newt with his mouth open. “Wow,” he said. “My goodness, Newt.”

Newt seemed to realize what he’d just said, his mouth twisting in embarrassment. He went back to pushing bookcases. “Anyway. I like her. Thanks for the introduction.”

“You’re very welcome.”

They finished setting up in comfortable silence. Aziraphale hefted a large box of the author’s books up on his shoulder and took it to the front to make a window display, Newt’s words swirling around in his head. He wouldn’t have agreed if Newt had said it the day before, but he did now. Crowley was handsome indeed, but at some point the night before Aziraphale had forgotten that as they lost themselves in conversation. He wondered if the same principle could work the other way. Could someone forget that the person they were talking to was ordinary-looking, even unattractive, because their internal qualities were attractive enough to make up for it?

He was still thinking about it when it came time to switch with Newt at the register.

“All right?” said Newt.

“What? Yes, why?”

“You’ve been walking around for the past hour with an expression like this,” said Newt, crunching his face into a caricature of deep thought.

“Oh. Yes, I’m fine,” said Aziraphale. He looked around to check for customers. Only a few in the back, and the owner wouldn’t be in until later.

“Have you ever dated anyone, Newt?”

Newt blinked. “Uh, yes. Not for very long, but yes. Have you?”

“I’ve been on dates, but no relationships,” said Aziraphale. “Dating the same sex usually has to involve an app of some kind, and I find that unpleasant for a whole volume of reasons.” He’d tried making a profile once, but he’d hated every picture he took of himself and couldn’t stomach the thought of strangers appraising him like a piece of meat.

Newt grimaced. “Agreed. I tried Tinder once a couple years ago and that did not work out well.”

Aziraphale couldn’t resist. “…what happened?”

“Well, after getting rejected about a thousand times, I managed to get a date with someone, and it turned out that the picture she was using wasn’t…current. Like, thirty years ago not current.”

“That’s…hmm. What did you do?”

Newt shrugged. “Stuck it out. She was really nice, actually. We had nothing in common though, and she reminded me of my mum, so that was a no-go. She told me halfway through that she’d thought I was lying about my age too, so neither of us was what the other one was expecting. Then I asked her if she knew about those dating websites that are more for older people, and she almost cried because she thought Tinder was all there was. She messaged me a couple months later that she’d found someone and thanked me for it.”

“Oh. That’s lovely.”

“Yep,” Newt said moodily, picking at a piece of tape on the counter. “Deleted Tinder pretty soon after that. Haven’t had a date since.”

“Could I see the picture you used?” Aziraphale said hesitantly. “Just out of curiosity?”

Newt gave him a long look, then took out his phone and scrolled through for a minute. “This one.”

Aziraphale took it and barely suppressed a laugh. It looked like a mugshot that had been put through one of those aging apps. “Ah. It’s…it’s…”

Newt took his phone back. “Terrible. I know it’s terrible; you don’t have to lie.”

“It doesn’t capture you very well,” Aziraphale said, dignified again. “I’ll help you take a better one, if the need should ever arise.”

“Thanks,” Newt mumbled, sticking his phone back in his pocket and turning away. “Going on my break now.”

Aziraphale watched Newt slouch away, biting the inside of his lip. He would have liked to tell Newt that he admired his bravery for putting himself out there in the first place, but he had a feeling that he’d just make him feel worse. He turned back to the register with a sigh and a mutter.

“Much braver than me, that’s for sure.”

\--

They went to dinner again the next Saturday night. And again the next week, and the week after, and the one after that. Aziraphale still sat in the bookshop after closing on Saturdays, reading by the window, but he found that he could no longer lose himself in his books like he’d always done before. He’d developed a habit of looking out the window every few minutes, waiting for the soft knock that signified Crowley’s arrival. Aziraphale’s stomach always did some interesting gymnastics whenever he heard that little _tap-tap_ and saw Crowley looking in at him, fiery hair blowing around in the wind and a half-smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. Then he would jump up from his chair, put away his book away, and meet Crowley out front, where Anathema and Newt would arrive shortly after.

The nights got later and later, and Aziraphale couldn’t have cared less. Getting home at one, two, even three in the morning was a small price to pay for those wonderful nights. They were always the last customers in whatever restaurant they chose that night, and after their second time getting kicked out, they decided there was no reason why they had to end the evening when nobody had to get up early the next day anyway. Sometimes they ended up at somebody’s flat, playing games and talking until they had to either go home or sleep on the floor, but one Saturday Anathema decided that she couldn’t live without ice cream for one single second longer and dragged them all out at 3:30 a.m. to find a convenience store that had the brand she liked. By the time Aziraphale dragged himself in through Tracy’s front door, the big clock in the front hall read 4:37 a.m. He shuffled into the kitchen to get a cup of water, yawning and yearning for his bed.

The kitchen wasn’t empty. Tracy was sitting at the table with a book and a cup of tea, still in her dressing gown and curlers. Her mouth fell open in astonishment as he walked in.

“My goodness, dear. I knew you were getting back late, but what’s this?”

Aziraphale giggled. Tracy had made a few comments about his sleeping until noon on Sundays before, but she’d never caught him coming in before.

“I’m not allowed to have fun?” he said teasingly, standing on tiptoes to reach the cupboard with the glassware and grabbing a glass with the tips of his fingers.

“Of course you are, love. But you never used to do this before. Are you out with the people you met at work, then?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said as he poured his water. “It’s been lovely. I didn’t expect to make friends like this in my very last year.”

“Why don’t you tell me about them?" Tracy said, smiling. "Later, if you like. I’m only up because my hip is acting up again.”

“I’ve got a moment,” Aziraphale said sleepily, sitting down at the table. He suspected Tracy got lonely sometimes at night, with no one to talk to as a distraction from the pain. “You remember Newt, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Tracy said, tucking a bookmark into the book she'd been reading and laying it on the table. “He’s the tall shy one, isn’t he?”

Aziraphale smiled. “Still tall, but not as shy as he used to be…”

He talked and talked, and in what felt like no time at all, the window began to glow with the faint light of dawn. Tracy offered again and again to let him go to bed, but Aziraphale insisted he wasn’t tired. He told Tracy all about Newt’s crush from afar, his excitement when he’d found out that Aziraphale knew her, and the immediate chemistry he’d seen between them during that first dinner. Their friendship had only grown since then, and it was a joy to watch. Anathema had so far shown no sign of returning Newt’s affections in a romantic way, but Aziraphale didn’t worry. He had a feeling Anathema might come around with time, and Newt was mature enough not to make a big deal out of it if she didn’t.

“Well, that sounds just wonderful,” Tracy said around six, leaning back against her chair and crossing her legs. “And what about the other boy, Crowley? You haven’t talked about him much; what’s he like?”

“Oh, he’s…nice,” Aziraphale said lamely. He’d been trying to avoid gushing about Crowley like he had with Anathema and Newt, and ended up leaving him almost completely out of the conversation. “Not anything like me, but we…we get along.”

Tracy’s eyes narrowed. “When you say that…does that mean you don’t have interests in common, or that he doesn’t swing your way?”

“The first one,” Aziraphale mumbled, not meeting her eyes.

“And…what about the second one? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, love, I know I’m being a nosey old lady.”

“You’re _not_ old. Um, well, I…I’ve never asked.”

“Well, it is a rather personal question,” Tracy said soothingly. “I’m sure it’ll come up at some point.”

“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale muttered. “How’s your hip? Feeling any better?”

Tracy smiled. “Much, thank you. Go to bed, won’t you, love?

Aziraphale grabbed his cup of water and stood up to make his escape.

“Yes, I think I will. See you in the…afternoon, probably.”

Tracy laughed. “Sleep well, dear.”

\--

A nagging sense of guilt followed Aziraphale around as he got ready for bed. He hadn’t _lied_ to Tracy, exactly, but he hadn’t told the truth, either. He’d found out during their third dinner that Crowley definitely did like men, in a rather graphic way.

It had started out innocently enough. Anathema had challenged them to tell their worst date stories, and they’d gone around the table with their tales of woe. Newt told the one about his Tinder catfish. Anathema recounted the time she’d been wined and dined at a fancy restaurant by some pretentious arsehole who demanded she pay the entire bill when she informed him that she wasn’t going to accompany him back to his flat. Aziraphale told them about a date with a man who spoke very little but stared at him relentlessly with bulging, unblinking eyes, unsettling him so much that he kept pointing out interesting things to look at to take that horrible gaze off of him for at least a moment.

Crowley… told a story about a Grindr date with a man who had invited him to dinner and the cinema. Aziraphale, Newt and Anathema had sat through the story with bated breath, waiting for an angry ex to storm in or the ceiling to fall through or something. But everything had gone without incident. It had gone so well, in fact, that Crowley’s date had invited him back to his flat afterward, and Crowley had accepted.

“What’s so bad about that?” Newt had said, nonplussed. 

“Do you want the short version or the long version?” Crowley had muttered, picking his paper napkin into pieces.

“Uh…long version, I guess?”

A sigh. “All right. So. He told me that he had…a fantasy. He, uh, he wanted to get railed over the kitchen table. I knew he had roommates, though, so I said no, because I didn’t want to get walked in on. But he swore up and down that none of them were home and he was sure that we’d have the flat to ourselves all night. So…I said yes, and we started to, nn, uh, do. Our thing.”

“Oh shit,” Anathema had mumbled, her head in her hands. “I don’t like where this is going.”

Crowley had glanced at him then, just a quick flick of those lovely amber eyes, then sucked in a deep breath through his teeth. “Yeah, I probably don’t need to finish this, but I’ve already started, so. Anyway. I got him ready, he got me ready, we were having a good time. Being kinda loud, but nobody’s home, so who cares, right?”

Anathema had put her face in her hands, and Newt gave a tiny groan. “Let me guess—you didn’t hear the key in the lock?”

“Nope. I just looked up from what I was doing right into the eyes of his roommate and her girlfriend. Who just stared at us in shock for a good ten seconds before they started to shout at him for, and I quote, ‘pulling this shite again.’”

“Oh, God,” Newt had gasped. “He was a, a serial…”

“Exhibitionist, yeah. I didn’t stick around to hear much after that; I just threw my clothes back on and ran out of there as fast as I could. Didn’t even put my shoes and socks on. I think I was four blocks away before I sat down on the pavement to do it.”

“I think that’s enough,” Anathema had said through her hands. “Moving on…”

They’d switched to some other topic after that, but Aziraphale had sat quietly out of the conversation for several minutes, not hearing any of it. His brain had been caught between exploding with excitement over the confirmation that Crowley liked men, and trying very hard to think of math problems, his grandmother, building IKEA furniture, anything that would keep him from being so uncomfortably turned on. It was already hard to ignore his attraction to Crowley, and being handed a whole fantasy (minus the ending, of course) about him on a silver platter had been too much to handle at once.

It was all so very annoying, Aziraphale thought as he climbed into bed. He did not want to look at Crowley like a piece of meat. Crowley was certainly not looking at him that way, and in any case, he liked Crowley as a _person_. It was true that they didn’t have many surface-level interests in common, but they somehow never ran out of things to talk about anyway. Crowley listened to all of his rambles about his books or the funny things that happened at work without a single eye-roll or snarky comment. He teased a lot, but Aziraphale found that he didn’t mind. Crowley’s teasing never edged into meanness, and he always gave it up the second Aziraphale stopped smiling along. Aziraphale had begun to crack him open in return, to tease him back and to make him talk about himself-his music, his garden, his aspirations for the future. It was work that didn’t feel like work at all.

In short, they were _friends_. Aziraphale had been attracted to male acquaintances he knew could never return the sentiment before, and he’d learned to deal with it. There was no reason why this was any different.

No reason at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of these dates is real! Gold star for anyone who can guess which one :D


	7. Crowley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley makes a mistake...and a decision.

Crowley ran up the steps to Anathema’s flat two at a time. It was Saturday night again, the best part of the whole week. The four of them had been doing Saturday night dinners for nearly three months now, and they’d finally gotten sick of the few restaurants Tadfield had that were open late, so they were staying in and cooking tonight instead. Anathema was the only one of them who didn’t have any flatmates, so she’d offered to host.

It was amazing how easily they’d all fallen into friendship, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Crowley made acquaintances easily, but not _friends_ , and _friends_ was definitely what they were. Crowley had found to his own surprise that he liked Newt just as much as he liked Anathema. He was smart, for one, and he had an unexpected sense of humor underneath the geological layers of awkward nervousness. He and Aziraphale bantered back and forth in much the same way he did with Anathema, and it was hilarious to watch.

Of course, the person he kept his eye on most of the time was Aziraphale. Like Newt, he had an unexpected hidden side to his personality. Except, in his case, underneath the sweet, bubbly exterior was a core of pure bastard. He would smile his cute twinkly smile up at you and roast you alive without even a word of warning. The first time he’d done it to Crowley, he’d just gaped for a whole minute as Newt and Anathema sniggered their stupid heads off. Crowley hadn’t thought it was possible to be more attracted to him, but apparently the upper limits of attraction to Aziraphale did not exist.

He hadn’t made a move yet. How could he, after the disastrous way he’d gone about letting Aziraphale know he was gay? The whole idea of telling date stories was Anathema’s idea, of course. She’d made a few comments before that about having gay friends back home, to make sure Aziraphale wouldn’t be uncomfortable coming out to them, and cleared the dating stories idea with Crowley before they met for dinner that night. It had been the perfect setup, and he’d still managed to ruin it spectacularly. He’d gone in imagining that the story about Mark and the kitchen table would make him look sexy and cool, and realized with one glance at Aziraphale’s tense, uncomfortable face that it made him look more like he did all his thinking with his dick. Anathema had been so embarrassed on his behalf that she hadn’t bugged him about moving forward for weeks.

“Nope,” he muttered to himself as he strode down the hall. “Not thinking about that right now.”

It had been two months since then, after all. Surely long enough for the memory to fade in Aziraphale’s mind. Crowley no longer had an excuse to put off asking Aziraphale for his number (Aziraphale did not do social media of any kind) or asking him out on a date. Except…now Crowley knew him, and for some reason that made it way harder. Every Sunday morning, as he drove home, he told himself that _next_ week would be it, _next_ week he would let Aziraphale know he was interested…and every time, he chickened out.

 _Maybe I’ll do it tonight_ , he thought as he reached the door. _We’ll see. If the moment seems right. And if not…there’s always next week._

He knocked on the shiny red door, a smile on his face and his heart beating fast with anticipation.

“It’s open!” Anathema shouted from inside.

Crowley’s smile turned into a scowl. He let himself in and locked the door and the deadbolt behind him. Off came his jacket and shoes, tossed carelessly onto the floor. He could hear Anathema, Newt, and Aziraphale in the kitchen, already busy cooking. Crowley padded over but didn’t come in, just leaned on the doorway with arms crossed.

“’Nathema, why is your door unlocked?”

A pyjama-and-slipper-clad Anathema threw him an eye-roll over her shoulder. “Hello to you too. It’s Tadfield, and there’s people home. Nobody’s going to break in.”

She went back to cutting up the carrots she had in front of her. The knife was too small, and she was holding it wrong, but Crowley didn’t let himself get distracted.

“There was a burglary a few months ago, remember?”

Anathema groaned. “Wasn’t that just a bunch of kids messing with their neighbor?”

“That doesn’t—”

“You locked the door behind you, didn’t you, my dear?” Aziraphale said, turning around and smiling. He held a large, high-sided bowl in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other, with which he busily stirring the contents of the bowl. Crowley’s heart did a backflip at the sight of him, as it always did. He was wearing a white canvas apron over his pink shirt, and his sleeves were rolled to the elbows. His waistcoat and bow tie were gone, and the top button of his shirt was undone, exposing a lovely soft triangle of skin that Crowley had never seen before.

Crowley just nodded. Speech was too much to hope for with Aziraphale looking like that.

“Then there’s nothing to argue about, is there?”

“No,” Crowley muttered. He ignored Anathema’s snicker and went over to the sink to wash his hands.

“Can I help?” he asked Newt, who seemed to be in charge of the whole affair. Anathema obviously had not a clue what she was doing. 

Newt picked up the cookbook that lay open behind him and peered at it. Crowley couldn’t see what the recipe was, but it didn’t matter. He'd eat pretty much anything.

“You can brown the lamb. Do you…do you know how? I can show you, if you don’t.”

Crowley grinned. “Nah, I know. What am I doing with it when I’m done?”

“Just take it out and set it aside, but save the grease.”

“Got it.”

Crowley dumped some oil into the pan that was already sitting on the stove and turned it on, then dug around in the fridge until he found the package of ground lamb. He’d never done this with lamb before, but it couldn’t be any different from beef or something.

As he broke the lamb up into chunks and pushed it around the pan, Aziraphale came up to his side and leaned against the counter next to the stove. Crowley stole another glance at him. God, he looked good. The muscles in his thick forearms stood out more than usual as he mashed the contents of the bowl. Potatoes, it looked like. His forehead was creased just a little in concentration, and the very tip of his tongue was sticking out. All in all, a highly kissable look.

Aziraphale noticed Crowley looking at him and smiled back. “How was your day, my dear?”

“Good,” Crowley mumbled. He tried not to imagine Aziraphale coming home to him every day and asking him that, preferably after a nice, long kiss against the counter. “Yours?”

“Oh, the usual. Except for a very strange call about an hour before close.” He giggled.

Crowley smiled. “Go on.”

“A man called in and asked me what kinds of books we had about the arts of, ah. Lovemaking. We do have a few. He had me take them all down and describe each one in detail, then instructed me to put them all on hold until he could come in and pick them up.”[1]

Crowley and Anathema both snorted. Newt stopped chopping onions and wheeled around.

“Wait, hold on! I got a call a couple months ago like that! Except it was a bloke wanting all the books we had on how to catch a woman. I wasn’t there when he came in to get them, so I don’t know what he looks like, but I know I’d recognize his voice.”

Aziraphale stopped mashing. “Was he really loud and a bit nasal?”

Newt gasped. “Yes! Oh my God, it’s the same one!”

They all laughed. Aziraphale giggled so hard he had to put his bowl down and wipe tears away. Crowley watched him out of the corner of his eye, admiring the way his eyes scrunched up and his chin doubled as he laughed. _Happy angel_.

“So he was successful, then,” Anathema said, still giggling herself. “He caught a woman, and now he has to figure out what to do with her.”

“S’what the Internet’s for,” Crowley grumbled. “You don’t have to spend a hundred quid to learn how to be good in bed.”

Anathema shrugged. “At least he’s trying.”

\--

The night flew by, as Saturday nights always did. They finished making the recipe—it turned out to be shepherd’s pie—and popped it into the oven, then sat down to play a game while they waited. Newt had brought Settlers of Catan, which none of them had ever heard of. It was surprisingly fun. Newt quickly won the first game, and in the second one Aziraphale established a monopoly on bricks and lumber and crushed them all. Of course he was too nice to gloat, but Crowley had stuck the Robber down the back of Aziraphale’s shirt in a fit of childish pique anyway. Aziraphale had immediately gone to the bathroom to take it out, then re-emerged with shirt tucked neatly back in and thrown it at Crowley’s face. _Flirting? I know I am, but is he?_

After that game, the shepherd’s pie was cool enough to eat. They sat at Anathema’s huge kitchen table and devoured it in short order. Her flat was way bigger than it needed to be for one person, but Crowley suspected she could live even larger if she’d wanted to. She’d shown him pictures of her house back in California once, and it looked like something out of an architecture magazine. He was pretty sure she didn’t need to work, either. He’d never mentioned it, but he had his theories.

Anathema finished her shepherd’s pie first, scraping her plate with her fork until it was almost spotless.

“That was pretty good. Not tasteless at all.”

“I’m so glad you liked it, my dear,” Aziraphale said, serving himself another piece. “Maybe we can try something your family likes next time.”

Anathema smiled. “Sure. I can’t cook for shit, but I can get a recipe from my abuela.”

“Hold up. What do you mean, not tasteless?” Crowley said with his mouth full.

“I mean, you know English food is famous for being tasteless, right? There’s no way I’m the first person to ever tell you that.”

“Yeah, we know,” Newt said, shrugging and taking the last bite of his own dinner. “Tasteless food, terrible weather, ugly people.” Crowley and Aziraphale laughed.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Anathema protested. “Rain isn’t necessarily terrible weather. I’m from California; I like rain. You just hate it because you get it all the time.”

“Not arguing about the “ugly people” part, I see,” Crowley said, smirking at her.

Anathema kicked him under the table. “It’s just an example, asshole. People being ugly is subjective, too.”

Crowley snorted.

“Sure.”

“It is,” Anathema insisted. “It’s all relative. Someone who’s attractive here and now might have been ugly in another time and place. You just don’t know anything about history.”

Crowley’s mouth dropped open. Sure, history wasn’t his specialty, but that was a low blow. Behind him, he could hear Newt and Aziraphale sniggering, and he rounded on them like an angry snake. Aziraphale stopped giggling when he saw Crowley’s face, but Newt only laughed harder, and Crowley’s ire grew to an even higher pitch. 

Then a terrible, awful thought popped into his head, and he smiled. It was not a nice smile.

“Let’s test your theory,” he told her, sweetly. He turned to Newt. “Newt, wouldn’t you say that Anathema is _objectively_ attractive?”

The smile slid off Newt’s face in an instant. Crowley grinned. It had been obvious from the beginning that Newt was in awe of Anathema’s looks, but in a matter of weeks it had developed into a full-blown crush. Newt didn’t stammer and bite his nails as much anymore, but his eyes followed her wherever she went, and Crowley could tell he hung onto her every word.

Which made what he was doing extremely unkind, and Crowley knew it. He just couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he heard Anathema say from behind him. “Newt, you don’t have to answer that, he’s just being—”

“No,” Newt mumbled, without meeting Crowley’s eye. “I want to. And my answer is no.”

Crowley let out a huge, fake gasp, just as Aziraphale gave a real one.

“No?” he said, leaning in. “C’mon, Newt. Look at her.”

Newt did not look up.

“No,” he said again. “She’s not objectively attractive, because I can’t speak for everyone who’s ever lived. But, I, uh. I think she’s very pretty. Subjectively.”

For several seconds after that, the only sound was the hum of the refrigerator behind them. Crowley stared at Newt, his jaw on the floor. He hadn’t really known what Newt was going to say, but if he’d had to guess, it wouldn’t have been that.

Then Anathema cleared her throat.

“Thanks, Newt. For proving my point, and, um. Yeah. You’re cute too, for what it’s worth.”

Newt, who had been gazing at his fork as though he were contemplating stabbing himself through the eye with it, looked up.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Anathema said firmly. “Really.”

She stood up and picked up her plate.

“I’m done. Anyone want to help me wash up?”

Newt leapt up, almost knocking over his chair in the process. Although Crowley was still reeling over what had just happened, he had just enough sense left to laugh into his hand instead of out loud. He glanced up at Aziraphale, expecting to share their usual knowing glance whenever Newt was a little too obvious.

But he couldn’t have been more wrong. The look on Aziraphale’s face froze Crowley’s blood in his veins, and in an instant he knew that Aziraphale knew exactly what he’d been trying to do. He looked back down at his plate, his heart thumping against his ribs like a trapped bird.

A moment later, Anathema and Newt were both gone, and Crowley felt Aziraphale drop his steely glare and calmly go back to his shepherd’s pie. Crowley meekly followed suit.

 _Well. There goes everything. Not asking him tonight. God damn it all to hell, what is_ wrong _with me?_

They are in silence. Or rather, Aziraphale ate, and Crowley picked. When Aziraphale finished, Crowley watched him out of the corner of his eye as he pushed his plate away and folded his hands atop his belly, just like he always did after a good meal.

“That was lovely. We ought to do this more often. Cook at home, I mean.”

So he was going to try and put it behind them, then. Crowley could go along with that. He cleared his throat.

“Yeah. S’nice.”

“I’m really going to miss this,” Aziraphale said quietly. “It’s a shame we didn’t all meet sooner.”

Right. Graduation. Crowley’s heart beat faster. He kept telling himself that he had time, that it was fine if he waited just one more week to ask Aziraphale out. But now there was only three more months left, and with the way he kept screwing up and wasting time…

“We’ll keep up after graduation,” he said desperately. “That won’t be the end of everything.”

“I’m sure, but it won’t be the same, will it? We’re all going to go our separate ways, as work and family circumstances demand. We might not all be together more often than once or twice a year, if that.”

Crowley stared at his plate, no longer hungry for the rest of his shepherd’s pie. Three months, and then they’d never get to do this again. No more Newt, no more Anathema, no more Aziraphale except for the occasional phone call or coffee. The clock that had been ticking faintly in the back of his head was now gonging in his ears. He pushed out his chair and stood up.

“Are you all right, my dear?” Aziraphale said, sounding a little alarmed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“’M fine,” Crowley mumbled. “I’m done. Can I take your plate?”

“Certainly, but don’t you want to finish yours?”

“You can have it, if you want it,” Crowley said, desperate to get away. “Otherwise it’s going in the bin.”

Aziraphale sighed and pulled the plate towards him. “If you like.”

Crowley grabbed the empty plate and the mostly-empty baking dish and slouched to the kitchen. He slid Aziraphale’s plate onto the counter next to the sink, his mood sinking even more as he watched Anathema flick soapy water at a laughing Newt.

“Anathema. _Anathema_.”

Anathema flicked water at Newt again, giggling. “What?”

“Have you got something for me to put this in?”

Anathema paused her water-flinging and turned to see what he meant. “Cupboard next to the fridge.”

Crowley found a glass dish with a lid of about the right size and scooped the shepherd’s pie into it, trying not to pay attention to Anathema and Newt’s flirting. When he finished, he gave Anathema the baking dish and stood awkwardly behind them.

“I can take over, if you want.”

“I think we’re all right,” Newt said over his shoulder. He was smiling, obviously bearing Crowley no ill will for the stunt he’d pulled earlier. Crowley felt, somehow, even worse.

“Great,” he mumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’ll leave you to it then.”

He slouched back out of the kitchen, brushing past Aziraphale, who had come in with Crowley’s plate just a moment before. He felt all of their eyes on him as he walked away, but he ignored them.

His feet carried him down the hall to the bathroom, where he locked the door behind himself and leaned against the counter. He sat in the dark for a while, trying to even out his breathing, then flicked on the light and studied his own face in the mirror. Sharp cheekbones, a dusting of red stubble that grew into a decent beard if he let it, striking amber-brown eyes. It was a handsome face, he knew. He’d been told as much by various hookups and partners—not just male but female, too, when he was still in secondary and pretending he was straight to people at school. He had never worried about people finding him unattractive. If someone was to reject him, they would do it because of who he was as a person. Which Aziraphale, who might actually be the nicest person in the whole world, would definitely do if Crowley was enough of an arsehole in front of him. He had to be more careful. And he had to make his move, before Aziraphale became a memory and a voice on the phone.

Crowley took a deep breath and met his own eyes in the mirror. Next Saturday night. He’d do it next Saturday night. No more excuses. When he got home early Sunday morning, he would have Aziraphale’s number in his phone, come hell or high water.

He opened the door, only to come face-to-face with Aziraphale standing on the other side with his fist raised. His heart did its usual gymnastics, but he didn’t back away, just smiled down at Aziraphale’s worried face.

“Whatcha doin’?”

“Seeing if you were all right,” Aziraphale said, his brow furrowed. “You’ve been in there a while.”

“I’m all right. Are you tired?”

“No,” Aziraphale said, moving out of the way so Crowley could walk out. “Are you?”

“Nope,” Crowley said. He reached out and ruffled Aziraphale’s hair. He’d wanted to do that for a long time. It was even softer than it looked, and he pulled his hand away with reluctance. “Want to play Catan one more time?”

Aziraphale giggled. “Well, look who’s in a good mood again. Sure. I didn’t know you enjoyed losing so much.”

Crowley’s eyes narrowed. “You won _once_.”

Aziraphale beamed up at him. “And I’ll win again.”

 _You’ve already won me_ , Crowley wanted to say. But he didn’t. He just turned on his heel and stalked back down the hall.

“We’ll see about that.”

\--

[1] Based on a real person. I hope you’re making good use of your sex library, Kama Sutra Man. Wherever you are.


	8. Aziraphale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The best-laid plans of snakes and men often go awry. 
> 
> (Please read the endnotes for CW if you think you might need it)

Aziraphale took a delicate bite of a chip and stole a glance at Anathema. The dim lighting of the old fish-and-chip shop deepened the shadows on her pretty face, making her look tired and older than she actually was. The impression wasn’t helped by the fact that she was churning her hair with both hands as she stared down the tarot cards laid neatly out on the table in front of her. She’d been doing that for several minutes now, and Aziraphale was getting worried.

“You can tell me if it’s bad news,” he said, trying to catch her eye. “I can handle it.”

“No, it’s not that,” Anathema muttered without looking up. “I just don’t understand what they’re trying to say.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said politely. Privately, he wished he’d had the temerity to turn Anathema down when she’d offered to read his cards. It wasn’t that he was hostile towards witchcraft, like most of his family, but he didn’t put any stock in it, either. In his opinion, any witchy prediction of the future that came true was just a lucky guess. Not that he was going to tell Anathema that; she seemed to really believe that the battered old cards held the secrets of the universe. He decided to tune back in to Crowley and Newt’s conversation and leave her to it.

“How hard is it to get a job at Kew[1], anyway?” Newt was saying.

“Hard,” Crowley said sourly through a mouthful of chips. “Hard to bloody fucking impossible. Just getting a full-time internship is like getting a liver transplant or something. And they’re not always paid, so I’d have to work another job on the side.”

Newt winced. Crowley swallowed his chips. Aziraphale’s eyes flicked down to his pale throat as his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, then back up to his mouth when he spoke again.

“I’d probably work somewhere else before I tried applying. Get some experience, save some money.”

Newt nodded. “Makes sense.”

“What about you, then?” Crowley said, popping the last of his chips into his mouth. “Going to do grad school right after you graduate?”

“I think so,” Newt sighed. “I don’t want to work some miserable little job in between. Not like anyone’d want to keep me on anyway.”

“Why?”

“I…break things,” Newt mumbled. “Electronic things.”

Crowley’s brow furrowed, but Aziraphale pressed his fist to his mouth to hide his smile. Poor Newt. He had the worst time with all things electrical—computers, phones, even calculators seemed to crumble in his hands. The last time he’d used the bookshop computer he’d somehow managed to delete their entire inventory record, even though all he’d tried to do was open Google. It had taken ten days to redo it all.

“Wait a minute,” Crowley said slowly. “Aren’t you minoring in computer stuff?”

“Yes,” Newt muttered. “At my father’s insistence. Mum’s all about chasing my dreams; Dad thinks I’ll starve to death on a history degree.”

Crowley didn’t laugh. His face went quite unexpectedly serious. “Don't worry; we’d never let that happen.”

Newt blinked. “Um. Thanks.”

Aziraphale gazed at Crowley’s sharp face, his eyebrows pulling down in confusion. _What a strange thing to say_. Of course they wouldn’t let Newt starve, but surely things would never get so bad as to need their intervention. He was just opening his mouth to say something along these lines when Anathema groaned and let her head droop forward until it almost hit the table.

“Is everything all right, my dear?”

“I’m just stuck,” Anathema mumbled. “All I know is that there’s going to be…a thing. In your life.” She waved a hand vaguely in Aziraphale’s direction.

“A thing.”

“Yeah. A thing. A connection you need to make, or a mistake you need to avoid, or…a decision, maybe?”

So…a vague prediction that could apply to literally anyone. Aziraphale forced his expression to remain neutral. It would only hurt Anathema’s feelings if he rolled his eyes or laughed.

“Maybe…it’s two things,” Anathema continued thoughtfully. “But all tangled together, so I can’t see the exact nature of what they are.”

“Hmm.”

“But that’s all I can get. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t trouble yourself over my future, my dear,” Aziraphale said, patting her shoulder and tilting his head to smile into her unhappy face. “Why don’t you give it up for now? You can try again another day, if you like, and until then I’ll keep what you’ve said in mind.”

Anathema sighed, untangled her hands from her hair, and swept the cards into a pile. “All right.”

“Are we about done?” Aziraphale said, looking around the paper-strewn table. Newt was still chewing on his last mouthful of chips, but everyone else was finished.

“I am,” Anathema said as she stuffed her tarot cards back into their box. “My place?”

“Thought we could go the pub, actually,” Crowley said, stretching. “I’m feeling pool tonight. Anyone else with me?”

Anathema’s miserable expression brightened. “Are you ready for me to wipe the floor with you?”

\--

They walked to the pub, which wasn't too far away, and claimed the old, chipped pool table for their own. Aziraphale stood awkwardly next to it, watching as Crowley gathered and racked the balls. He had never played pool in his life and was sure he was about to make a complete hash of it. Newt seemed equally nervous, but still appeared to be trying his best to understand what Anathema was saying about rules and strategy.

Crowley looked beautiful in the golden light of the single lamp hanging above the pool table. Aziraphale could see his collarbones showing just above the collar of his stretched-out old t-shirt. His hair, shining like liquid fire, was starting to fall out of its loose bun. Crowley finished racking the balls and straightened up, turning his back on them. He undid his hair and shook it out in a creased wave of red. Aziraphale sucked in his breath. The muscles in Crowley’s shoulders bunched as he twisted his hair back up, his shirt riding up just enough to show a golden strip of skin on the small of his back.

Aziraphale looked away before anyone could catch him staring. He was getting worse at hiding it all the time; it was a miracle nobody had noticed yet.

“No offense, Aziraphale, Newt, but I think if you two were a team it would just be unfair,” Anathema said, breaking Aziraphale out of his reverie.

“None taken,” Aziraphale murmured. “I haven’t the faintest clue what I’m doing.”

“So, you with Crowley, and me with Newt?”

“Sure,” Aziraphale squeaked. Newt shuffled and nodded.

Crowley just shrugged. “Fine by me.”

Crowley swaggered over to the rack of pool cues on the wall and grabbed a long one for himself and a shorter one for Aziraphale, while Anathema did the same for herself and Newt. They flipped to decide who would break. Crowley won, and Aziraphale watched his technique as he lined up the shot. Or at least, he told himself that was what he was doing. He was paying more attention to the way the tendons in Crowley’s forearms moved, how the shadows cast by the lamp accentuated the sharpness of his cheekbones.

Crowley pocketed two stripes, and Anathema pocketed a solid. Then It was Aziraphale’s turn. He twirled the pool cue nervously. He tried to line up a shot like Anathema had and was about to poke the cue ball as hard as he could when he felt Crowley behind him.

“Which one are you going for?”

“That one,” Aziraphale said, gesturing with his head. If he moved his hands, he was sure he’d never get them into the right place again.

Then Crowley’s hands were on him, and he stopped breathing. Crowley first took Aziraphale’s right hand and adjusted his grip on the cue. Then, he moved Aziraphale’s left hand so the cue was resting more comfortably on it. Calm, capable hands. Cool and rough and strong.

“I’m going to move you over a little,” Crowley said. Aziraphale nodded. He was very warm all of a sudden. The cool fingers moved to his shoulders. Crowley shifted him a few centimeters left, then let go. Aziraphale breathed out and stood there for a moment, wishing he could have kept Crowley’s hands on him for a moment longer.

Then he remembered what he was supposed to be doing and squinted down the cue. He drew it back and _whacked_ the ball as hard as it could go. It caromed around the table, missing first one stripe and then another by a hair’s breadth…then knocked in another solid.

Crowley groaned.

“Thanks, Aziraphale!” Anathema said, grinning.

Luckily for him and Crowley, Crowley was good enough for the two of them and Newt was just as awful as Aziraphale. Crowley and Anathema took turns moaning in disappointment as Aziraphale and Newt took turns pocketing the cue ball, almost knocking in the 8, and failing to hit anything at all. Aziraphale supposed he would have done better if he hadn’t been stealing looks at Crowley every chance he got. The easy grace with which he moved, the long legs stretched way out behind him as he leaned on the table. And yes, his arse, which Aziraphale simply couldn’t help but notice. Why did Crowley have to wear such tight trousers?

He and Crowley kept touching in one way or another. Crowley would lean past Aziraphale to show him how to line up a shot, and his arm would brush against Aziraphale’s. They high-fived every time one of them made a shot, and when they passed each other their cues, their fingers would touch for a brief moment. Aziraphale’s skin seemed to burn where Crowley touched it.

Finally, they were down to the 8. Anathema or Crowley would knock it into line with a pocket, and Newt or Aziraphale would manage to send it skittering away again. Anathema was nearly tearing her hair out when Newt came up for his fifth try. Newt aimed, leaned over, pulled back—

“Miss.”

The 8 rolled neatly into the pocket. Anathema pumped the air. “Yes! Suck it, Crowley!”

Newt looked like he’d just made the final goal of the World Cup. He wrapped his arms around Anathema, picked her up, and whirled her around. “We did it!” Anathema’s eyes went wide, but she was grinning from ear to ear.

Aziraphale smiled. It was so wonderful to see Newt getting bolder, now that Anathema had given him the go-ahead of sorts. He turned away to let them have their moment.

“I’m sorry for being so terrible,” he said, looking up at Crowley. “You don’t have to be on my team next time.”

“Eh, who cares,” Crowley mumbled, crossing his arms. “It’s just a game.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Sour grapes.”

That got him a smile. Aziraphale struggled with himself for a moment. _Can I? Should I? Oh, who cares._ He drew in a steadying breath and put a hand on Crowley’s slim back. A little shiver ran through him as he felt the wiry muscles running alongside Crowley’s spine, beautifully defined and warm through his thin t-shirt.

“Thank you for teaching me, my dear.”

Crowley stiffened, and Aziraphale’s heart sank. _Too far_. He whipped his hand away and cleared his throat.

“Do, ah…do we have time for another game?”

\--

They didn’t finish the next game before the pub closed. As they walked out, Anathema and Newt argued that it counted as a win for them because they had pocketed one more ball than Aziraphale and Crowley.

“Fine. All the glory for you, then,” Crowley muttered grumpily, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. “Where are all your cars?”

“Chip shop,” Anathema and Newt said in unison. They looked at each other and laughed. Aziraphale laughed with them, but Crowley just rolled his eyes.

“Walk back together, then?” Newt said to Anathema.

She smiled. “Sure.”

The two of them bade Crowley and Aziraphale goodnight and turned to go, Anathema shooting Crowley a long, meaningful look over her shoulder as she went. Aziraphale was still looking back and forth between them when Crowley spoke again.

“What about you? Car still at the bookshop?”

“Ah, no. It’s at home. I walk to work most days.”

Crowley goggled. “Do you mean to tell me that you’ve been walking home all this time? At _night_?”

Aziraphale shuffled and looked down, feeling like a child that had been caught doing something naughty. “Well. Yes. Never had any trouble. And it’s not far; Tracy lives quite close.”

Crowley’s eyes narrowed. “I’m driving you home. C’mon.” He didn’t wait for Aziraphale’s assent, just turned on his heel and began walking in the opposite direction.

Aziraphale considered making a token protest, then thought the better of it. He followed behind, jogging a little to catch up as Crowley strode along. They soon reached the end of the first block and turned. As they walked by a darkened storefront, a formless shape that Aziraphale had taken to be a pile of rubbish by the door suddenly jerked to life. He jumped.

“Goodness!”

It was a woman. A matted mass of gray hair stuck straight out from her head, stiff with dirt and grease. Wild eyes stared out of sunken sockets. She scrambled backwards, out of their way, and as she did Aziraphale's eyes traveled down to her clothes. Just a thin blouse and a long skirt. No coat, only a dirty, too-small blanket. Not near enough to keep out the early spring chill. _Well, that can't stand._

Aziraphale knelt down on the pavement and smiled at her. 

"Hello."

She said nothing, just continued to stare at him suspiciously. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley hissed. He grabbed Aziraphale's collar and pulled. 

Aziraphale swatted him away, aware of the woman's eyes tracking their every move. “Do you need somewhere to stay, my dear?”

“ _Aziraphale!_ ”

The woman shook her head, gathering her blanket more tightly about her shoulders. “No, sir. I’m just fine.”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, he heard Crowley let out a long, shaky breath, but Aziraphale didn’t take his eyes off of the old lady. “Well, you’re not dressed warmly enough to be outside,” he said firmly. “Here.”

He fiddled around in his pockets for his wallet and keys. Without removing his hands, he pulled all the bills out of his wallet, then removed his keys and now-empty wallet. He took off his coat and held it out to her, smiling. “Here you are.”

She stared at it. It was a camel-colored wool peacoat, very warm and high-quality. Made to fit, of course. “It’s all right, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “I really want you to have it.”

Her eyes flicked back and forth between his face and the coat. Deciding. She took it. “Thank you,” she whispered. She shrugged off her blanket and put it on, visibly relaxing in the warmth. It was far too big, but that only meant she would be even warmer.

“Goodnight,” Aziraphale said brightly. He stood up and brushed the dirt off of his trousers.

“Shall we?” he said to Crowley, who had been standing stiffly next to him the whole time, saying nothing.

Crowley simply turned on his heel again and kept walking. Aziraphale bounced alongside him, flush with the glow of a job well done.

When they reached the end of the block and turned the corner, Crowley finally spoke.

“Don’t you need that?”

“I’ve got others at home. And I run warm.”

Crowley said nothing, just walked faster. Aziraphale was nearly running trying to keep up with him. His happy glow was fading into uncertainty and discomfort.

“Were you going to invite her home with you?” Crowley said a minute later.

Aziraphale sighed. “Yes. Nobody ever takes me up on it, though.” Tadfield didn’t have many homeless people, but whenever he came upon one of them at night, he offered them a place to stay. A lot of the time they wouldn’t take money either, which was why Aziraphale hadn’t mentioned the hundred or so pounds he’d left in the pocket.

Crowley laughed. It was harsh and short, not like his usual laugh at all. “You’re completely insane.”

Aziraphale inhaled sharply. He glanced at Crowley, shocked by the nastiness in his voice and on his face. It took him several minutes to think of what to say back, by which time they were almost upon Crowley’s ancient beater of a car. Crowley unlocked the doors manually and yanked open the driver’s side, but Aziraphale hesitated. Crowley leaned over and glared at him through the window.

“What are you waiting for? Get in!”

Aziraphale swallowed hard and got in. Crowley asked him for his address to put into his phone, then started the car and rocketed down the street with a screech of tires. Aziraphale closed his eyes and said nothing, not wanting to further provoke Crowley’s mysterious rage. He just clutched his seat and braced himself, wishing he’d insisted on walking.

They jerked to a stop, and Aziraphale opened his eyes. A traffic light, one with a camera. Of course. He pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes. Some of his bravery trickled back.

He took a deep breath.

“ _For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink_.”

“Wha—"

“ _I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me_.”

“Oh, for God’s—”

“Christ, actually. _I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me_.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw long fingers clench on the steering wheel.

“Thought you weren’t religious.”

Aziraphale turned away to look through the passenger side window, staring off into the dark. It still hurt a little to hear that. Losing his faith had been one of the most painful things that had ever happened to him. His parents still didn’t know; they wouldn’t have understood. The only thing that had kept him from falling into despair was the knowledge that being good still meant something, that helping other human beings was worth the time and effort even if there was no promise of an eternal reward.

“I’m not,” he said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped living a righteous life.”

The light turned green, and Crowley floored it through the intersection. Aziraphale gasped.

“Crowley, please slow down. Please.”

Crowley immediately took his foot off the gas pedal. Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief as they stopped at a stop sign.

“You have no idea why that woman is out on the street,” Crowley said abruptly. “And you were about to take her into your house.”

“Why does that matter?” Aziraphale snapped back.

“Because she might be out there for a good reason,” Crowley snarled. He turned the corner, going exactly the speed limit. “For all you know, her family threw her out because she sold her son’s medication on the street for the fifth time. Or stole her daughter’s wedding ring and pawned it. Or threatened her partner because they tried to stop her from using. Or…I don’t fucking know. You would have had no idea what she would do once she was in your house. She could kill you in your sleep. Did you think about that?”

Aziraphale had thought about that, but he’d always assumed that it couldn’t possibly happen to him. Assault and robbery were things that happened to other people. Not people who were trying to do good deeds.

“I did,” he said angrily as they turned onto his street. “And I decided to do it anyway. I probably shouldn’t have done it without asking my landlady, since she lives here too, but if it were just me I wouldn’t have thought twice. I’m willing to risk my own possessions and life in order to help someone, even if you aren’t. Here, it’s this one.”

“You,” Crowley said viciously as he pulled up in front of Tracy’s house, “have no _fucking_ clue what you’re saying.”

Aziraphale twisted in his seat and opened his mouth to bite back a retort, but stopped short. As he looked at Crowley’s sharp profile—hands still tight on the steering wheel, mouth hard and shoulders pulled up in a tight hunch—he understood, in a blinding flash of clarity, that Crowley knew exactly what it was like to take that kind of risk, and that nobody had asked him first whether he wanted to or not.

_A connection…a mistake. Oh. Oh, no._

He groped frantically for the door handle.

“No, I don’t suppose I do. Goodnight, my dear, and thank you for the ride.”

Then, before Crowley could reply, he let himself out of the car and shut the door behind him, tears of shame already prickling at his eyes.

\--

[1] A.K.A. the Royal Botanic Gardens, in London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Homelessness, mention of drug use and addiction
> 
> I'm sorry, guys. This got a little less soft than I thought it was going to be, but I promise I'll fix it in the next chapter <3 
> 
> If anyone is interested, Aziraphale is quoting Matthew 25:35-36.


	9. Crowley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Making up :)
> 
> (see endnotes for CW)

Crowley checked his phone. 4:37 a.m.

“Bloody hell.”

He dropped his phone on the floor and went back to staring at the ceiling. His eyes itched with tiredness, but sleep refused to come.

 _How?_ he thought. _How did I screw up so bad?_

The night had been going so perfectly. He’d invited everyone to play pool, as he’d planned. It gave him an excuse to touch Aziraphale, which he’d done at every opportunity. He’d even thought Aziraphale was responding to his flirting near the end of the night, when he’d rested a hand on Crowley’s back, making goosebumps pop up all over his body. The plan was to ask for Aziraphale’s number somewhere on the drive home.

Then Aziraphale had stopped for that old vagrant woman. Had almost taken her _home_ with him. Crowley had nearly fallen apart right there on the street.

 _I should have crossed the street. First mistake._ Unlike Aziraphale, he’d noticed the old woman before she moved and was preparing to execute his usual evasive maneuver for homeless people. Keep to the edge of the pavement, avoid eye contact, walk faster. If she’d been awake, he would have crossed to the other side or even take a different street, to minimize the possibility of being acknowledged or followed. But she had been asleep, and he’d stupidly thought that they were safe to walk right by.

The worst possible outcome should, _should_ have been that the old woman woke up and yelled at them or something. Crowley would have snarled something back and dragged Aziraphale away, his free hand on the knife he always carried in his pocket, and that would have been the end of it. Never in his wildest nightmares had he imagined that Aziraphale would let his defenses down like that. When he’d offered that woman a place to stay, the clock had suddenly turned back, and Crowley was nine years old again, watching his father buckle under his mother’s protests that she was clean, that she would do it all right this time, that it was safe to take her back into their house and their lives. If the woman had taken Aziraphale up on his offer, Crowley would have done anything to stop him from bringing her in. Anything.

But she hadn’t. She’d just taken his coat, and a fat wad of cash too, if the pocket-rummaging he’d seen Aziraphale do before he handed it to her meant what he thought it did. Which might be going to feed a habit, but maybe not. For all he knew, Aziraphale might have just changed her life.

 _And what did you do? You shit all over him for it. Great fucking job._ Crowley groaned and buried his face in his pillow, churning his hair into a mass of knots.

It was no mystery to him why he’d been so angry and scared. If he didn’t care about Aziraphale so much, he wouldn’t have been so terrified at the thought of him bringing a stranger in where he slept. The thought of someone touching a hair on that soft blonde head made his breath catch in his throat and his fists clench. That, he thought, was understandable.

What was _not_ was the way he’d treated Aziraphale afterward. He’d freaked out, explained nothing, and driven like a bat out of hell, which Aziraphale must have interpreted as a display of anger, having no way of knowing he always drove like that. He must have been terrified. No wonder he’d sprinted out of the car like it was about to explode.

Could he fix this? Crowley had no idea. He certainly wasn’t going to give up without trying, but he hadn’t the faintest idea how to go about it, despite having racked his brain for hours for a solution. Which was why he was still awake at nearly five in the morning.

Well…that, and thinking about how Aziraphale had looked earlier, before Crowley had ruined his good mood. Aziraphale had always been beautiful, but he had never been so beautiful as he had tonight. Crowley sighed. He could still see him in his mind, smiling gently at the vagrant woman as he held out his coat. The streetlights had lit up his pale hair and his white shirt, bathing him in a bright glow. He had looked so happy as they walked away, like he’d just won something instead of given it away, and even through the miasma of anger and fear, Crowley had still wanted to grab one of those happily swinging arms and kiss that smiling mouth. Then hold him and never let go, so he couldn’t go off and get into trouble ever again. God, how he wanted that.

Crowley flipped over and sprawled out, arms and legs hanging off the edges of his narrow bed. He glanced at the window, which was glowing faintly with the first rays of dawn, and growled in frustration. He jumped up, yanked the drapes shut, and threw himself back in bed, landing in a tight, anxious knot atop the crumpled sheets.

 _Breathe_ , a tiny voice said in the back of his head. _Just breathe and go blank. We’ll fix this when we wake up._

“Okay,” Crowley whispered to himself. He pulled the covers up, willed his mind clear, and took a deep breath. Just like the counselor had taught him when he was ten and so anxious that he stayed up all night and fell asleep in school.

_In, and out._

_In, and out._

_In, and out._

_In, and…_

The sun continued to rise, light shining through a crack in the drapes, but Crowley didn’t see it. He was sleeping at last—mouth open just a little, limbs finally relaxed, and starting to dream of the thing he liked best.

\--

When Crowley awoke, it was almost noon, and he didn’t get up for almost an hour after that. When he finally dragged himself out of bed, he got dressed in his most worn-out clothes, grabbed an apple for breakfast, and headed to the nursery.

The last frost had melted a week ago. It was planting time. Most of the garden was taken up by perennials, so he didn’t have to replant the whole thing every year, but Crowley had decided that he was going to save up and plant different annuals every year. He had some ideas, but the people at the nursery knew more than he did and gave good advice.

Technically, the garden wasn’t his. It belonged to his landlord, who had told him that they’d give him a break on the rent if he maintained the garden in the back. That had been in his second year, and since then Crowley had done more than maintain it. He spent most of his spare daylight hours there in the growing season, planting, weeding, watering, pruning, and mulching. When he sat on the splintery old porch swing and looked out at the glory he had created with his own hands, he felt a delight that few other hobbies could give.

He pulled up to the nursery, cleared all his crap off the back seat to make room for later, and headed inside. A gust of fragrant air washed over him as he walked in, and he breathed in deeply. Flowers, soil, mulch, damp. Only the best smell ever.

He spotted Bee in the back and headed over. They were misting a row of flowers, but they looked up when they heard him approach. Their greasy black hair slipped out of their short, spiky ponytail, falling into their eyes. They pushed it away impatiently.

“All right, Crowley?”

“Hey, Bee. It’s that time again.”

They shut the hose off and rubbed their hands together, grinning. “How about lavender this year?”

“Oh, hell no. I know how big those get.”

Bee groaned. “Come on. Your house will be bee central. Think of the bees, Crowley.”

Crowley just shook his head instead of bantering back like he usually did. Bee cocked their head at him. Crowley had been coming to them for all his gardening needs for two years now, and they knew him fairly well. But they weren’t the prying type. They just shrugged and turned off the hose.

“All right then. C’mon.”

He followed behind Bee as they walked him through the rows of young plants, asking questions about shade and soil requirements. He would have preferred to buy his own seeds and start them inside himself, but it took up too much room, and his housemates complained. The nursery wasn’t busy today, so Bee allowed the interrogation to continue for longer than usual. When he’d first started gardening, he'd run to the nursery every time he had a question. Bee had told him a few times that he ought to learn how to use Google, but they always answered his questions anyway.

Finally, he decided on three: marigolds, zinnias, and snapdragons. They chatted as Bee rang him up for the flowers, plus fertilizer and mulch. Bee always asked after his classes and friends by name—they had an amazing memory—but deflected most personal questions. Crowley knew they were married, and that was about it.

“How’s your spouse?” Crowley said. He had no idea what kind of individual their spouse was, and Bee never specified. It tortured Crowley’s curiosity to no end, but he refused to break and ask.

“Oh, they’re fine,” Bee said. “Now.” They grimaced.

“What happened?”

“I forgot our anniversary. Usually have a reminder on my phone, but I got a new one in between anniversaries and didn’t put it in.”

Crowley laughed. “How’d you smooth that one over?”

“We had an anniversary-and-one-day celebration instead,” Bee said, printing out his receipt.

“Nice save.”

Bee was short and looked delicate, but they threw his bag of mulch easily over their shoulder and headed out to Crowley’s car. Crowley grabbed the fertilizer and followed.

“How d’you normally fix it when you piss them off?” Crowley asked Bee on impulse. “Asking for a friend.”

Bee gave him the side-eye. “Apologize like an emotionally competent human being.”

Crowley winced and said nothing. It was the obvious, logical answer to a dumb question. He groped for a better way to phrase it as he unlocked the car, and came up blank.

Bee tossed the mulch into the boot. “A peace offering is a good idea too. Along with the apology.”

“Like what?”

“Something specific to them, that they like. Not just generic chocolate or some shit.”

Crowley digested this. What could he give Aziraphale that wasn’t overtly romantic? He ran over various possibilities as they loaded the plants into the car. What did Aziraphale like? Books, nice clothes, sweets. Nothing seemed to fit the bill. He was about to mumble a thank you and take off when Bee stopped him.

“Hold on. Does your friend know how to apologize?”

Was there a right and a wrong way that Crowley didn’t know about? “Uh. I dunno.”

Bee cocked their head. “Tell ‘em this: Say sorry. Be specific about what. After that you can explain, but don’t excuse. Then promise to do better, and actually do it. Can you remember that?”

Crowley blinked. That was…really good advice. Something clicked, and the beginnings of a plan began to germinate in his head, ready to shoot up and flower with a little more thought.

“Uh…yeah.”

Bee nodded and turned away, wiping their hands on their trousers. “Good luck with the plants,” they said over their shoulder. “And whatever else.”

Crowley sighed. “Thanks.”

\--

Crowley hovered nervously outside the bookshop. It was now Wednesday, the first day of the week he and Aziraphale had shifts at the same time. In his hands he clutched a triple-stacked paper cup from the café across the street. He hoped he had gotten the order right. He knew Aziraphale didn’t drink coffee or even tea, for which he, Anathema and Newt had thoroughly teased him. So Crowley guessed, from that and Aziraphale’s very obvious sweet tooth, that he was a cocoa person. He glanced in through the big bay windows. Aziraphale was at the register, chatting merrily with whoever he was ringing up.

When another customer opened to the door to go out, Crowley slunk in, hoping Aziraphale wouldn’t notice him. He lurked behind a bookshelf, glad that the register was in the middle of the shop and not the back. He watched Aziraphale from the back, waiting for him to walk away for a minute so Crowley could make his move. His clothes were all pastels today. Tartan-patterned sweater vest in cream and beige, light pink bow tie. _Only Aziraphale could wear tartan and make it look good._

The line at the register dwindled, and finally disappeared entirely. Aziraphale leaned on the counter a moment, stretched and made an adorable noise, and walked to the back of the store. Crowley darted out, placed the cup next to the register, and made his escape. Hopefully Aziraphale would find the cup before it got cold.

On the side of the cup, Crowley had written:

_Something to warm you up._

_I’m sorry for the other night. Can we talk?_

_-C_

\--

Crowley leaned on the counter, staring out the window of the record shop. He was halfway through his shift, waiting for his lunch break to come or a meteor to hit or something. Aziraphale’s shift wouldn’t end for a while yet, and the shop was currently empty.

His mind wandered far and wide as he stared off into space. At the moment, it was exploring all the possible other ways Saturday night could have gone. For instance, if he hadn’t been such a prick, he’d have Aziraphale’s number by now. _Or_ , the part of his brain that didn’t bother with common sense said, _you could have kissed him right there on the street_.

Hmm. That was a nice thought. Crowley knew exactly when he would have done it, too. It would have been right after he’d asked Aziraphale if he needed his coat, and Aziraphale had twinkled up at him and said that no, he ran warm. It would have been excellent to growl “Warm _me_ up, then,” and press Aziraphale up against the nearest building. In his fantasy, Aziraphale gasped as his back hit the wall and Crowley ran his hands roughly through that gossamer-soft hair, tilting his face up so Crowley could taste his mouth. He could practically feel Aziraphale’s body against his, his wide chest heaving as his breath came faster and faster. He imagined Aziraphale kissing him enthusiastically back, arching up as Crowley grabbed a double handful of that delicious round arse, those warm hands clutching his hips as he moaned into Crowley’s mouth…

Crowley blinked. The object of his fantasy was standing right on the other side of the window, waving at him with one hand and holding the cocoa cup in the other. _Oh, hell. How long has he been standing there?_ He waved back, hoping his face wasn’t as tomato-red as it felt.

When Aziraphale saw that he’d gotten Crowley’s attention, he smiled and walked to the door. Crowley’s heart jumped into his throat. He composed himself and quickly ran through the speech he’d been composing for the last few days in his head.

The bell tinkled.

“Hey.”

“Hello, my dear,” Aziraphale said. Crowley’s mouth twitched up at the endearment. “Do you have a moment now, or should I wait until later?”

“Now’s fine,” Crowley mumbled, fiddling with one of the counter displays. He took a deep breath. “I wanted to say I’m sorry for snapping at you the other day, and driving like I was trying to kill us both. It didn’t have anything to do with you; I always drive like that, you can ask Anathema. This doesn’t excuse it, but I snapped at you because, nh, because—”

He looked up and cut off mid-ramble. Aziraphale was holding up one finger, his mouth open.

“My dear, do you mind if I cut in? I didn’t come here to hear you try to explain yourself, because I don’t think you owe me any explanation at all. Or an apology, either. I do want to thank you for the cocoa, though. It was very kind of you to buy that for me. You’re really a very nice person.”

A shiver of pleasure went down Crowley’s spine. But as much as Crowley would have liked to encourage that impression, he didn’t Aziraphale to be deluded about what kind of a person he was.

“I’m not nice,” he snapped. “I would have let that woman freeze. I was going to walk right by her.”

“And I’m sure that you would have done it for an excellent reason,” Aziraphale said calmly. “We’ve led very different lives, I think, and it would follow that your idea of the right thing to do would be quite different from mine.”

He stepped closer to the counter and rested his forearms on it, his hands still cradling the cup. Crowley knew that he should pull away, but all he wanted was to lean forward and kiss that soft pink mouth, which was now so very close. He dragged his gaze back up to Aziraphale’s eyes, which were still trained on his.

“The other reason, the main reason, that I came here is to apologize myself,” Aziraphale continued. “I realized, a bit too late, that the reason you were so angry with me was because you were worried about my safety. Instead of recognizing that from the start and allowing you to explain yourself, I immediately brushed you off and assumed that you were coming from a place of meanness and selfishness. I will try very hard not to make that mistake again. Can you forgive me?”

Crowley stared at him. He hadn’t meant to, but as soon as Aziraphale started to apologize, he’d begun ticking off all the checkpoints Bee had given him to make his own apology. Aziraphale had hit every single one. It was killing him not to cram his sunglasses over his eyes to hide all the stupid emotion that must be showing on his face.

“Yeah,” he croaked. “Yeah, I forgive you.”

Aziraphale beamed. “Thank you, my dear.” He held out the cup, which, Crowley realized, was not the cocoa cup he’d given Aziraphale earlier after all. He took it. It was full and hot to the touch. He gave Aziraphale a confused look.

“Coffee,” Aziraphale said, answering his unspoken question. “I remember you saying once that you liked it “black like your soul,” so that’s what it is.”

Crowley laughed. He actually preferred a bit of sugar and cream in his coffee, but that was much less important than the fact that Aziraphale had listened, had cared enough to try and get it right. He took a sip and smiled.

“’S good. Perfect.” _Like_ _you_.

“Wonderful,” Aziraphale said. He smiled shyly back, then looked away and shuffled back. “I’m afraid I must be going back, my dear. I’m on my short break.”

“Right,” Crowley said, taking another sip of coffee instead of jumping over the counter to kiss him goodbye. “See you on Saturday, then?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said as he headed for the door. He gave Crowley one last smile and a little wave. “See you on Saturday.”

He went out with another tinkle of the bell. Crowley set down the coffee and watched him through the windows as he passed by the front of the shop. His heart was swelling so much it felt as though he might burst, and as soon as Aziraphale was out of sight, Crowley sprang up and ran to the stereo in the back. He jammed the aux cord into his phone, scrolled impatiently through his music until he found the right song, and hit play.

He closed his eyes as smooth notes of piano floated through the air, his mouth forming the words of the song without his needing to think about it. Then the drums came in, and his body was moving—twisting, tapping, swaying along with the beat Crowley knew so well.

_I'm a shooting star, leaping through the sky_

_Like a tiger defying the laws of gravity_

_I'm a racing car, passing by like Lady Godiva_

_I'm gonna go, go, go_

_There's no stopping me…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Memories of a family member dealing with addiction, anxiety stemming from past trauma related to drug abuse. Begin at "When Crowley awoke" (start of second scene) to skip. 
> 
> Hmm. I wonder where Aziraphale learned to apologize like that? A mystery...


	10. Aziraphale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bravery in the little things :)

“Are you sure you still want me and Crowley there?” Aziraphale said, frowning at Newt.

“Yes,” Newt muttered. “Baby steps, okay?”

Aziraphale shrugged and let it go. Newt had gotten a hold of his uncle’s telescope and had proposed going stargazing after dinner on the next clear Saturday night. It was obviously supposed to be romantic, but Newt was clearly still too scared to ask Anathema out properly. She had given Newt her number after their pool game, and they’d been texting nonstop all week. Aziraphale knew this because Newt got a big goofy smile on his face every time another text from her pinged in. He tried his best not to tease Newt about it, but Newt was so obvious that it was hard not to sometimes.

“Going to hold her hand?”

Newt glared at him.

“Oh, don’t be like that. You know I want you to succeed.”

Newt dropped his glare and sighed. “Hand me the box cutter, will you?”

Aziraphale grabbed the box cutter, closed it, and tossed it to him. It was a Sunday morning, and they were in the bookshop’s musty basement. The owner had offered them extra hours to clean out and reorganize some of the clutter. It wasn’t something they could do in a day; there were so many boxes they could hardly get around. For once, Aziraphale was wearing an old t-shirt and jeans, and he was glad of it. The basement was filthy and they stirred up more dust every time they moved something. He was going to have a shower the second he got home.

“Feels a bit unequal sometimes,” Newt said as he went through a box of flyers for a bookshop event from 2005. “I don’t have anything to poke fun at back with you. I’m over here making a fool of myself, and you get to sit back all serene and untouchable.”

Aziraphale looked up from a box of ancient Christmas decorations in astonishment. “Do you really think that?”

Newt looked a little guilty. “Well. You never tell me about anyone you like. I never see you go to pieces around attractive people.”

Aziraphale looked down and busied himself digging through the Christmas decorations. He’d avoided telling Newt that he was attracted to Crowley from the start, but it was well beyond that now. Attraction had given way to something deeper and stronger the moment he’d read the note Crowley had written on the cup of cocoa. His heart leapt every time he caught sight of a person with red hair, and if that person turned out to be Crowley, he couldn’t stop a smile from spreading across his face.

Honestly, if Newt had been the prying type, he probably could have figured it out. He and Crowley had started waving to each other on their ways in to work, and meeting up when their breaks overlapped. It was lovely, but their friendship was still inextricably tied to work. Aziraphale didn’t even have Crowley’s phone number, and he was too shy to ask. Crowley would have asked if he wanted it anyway.

“Has it occurred to you that I just…have no life?” he said with a wan smile.

Newt looked even guiltier. Aziraphale turned back to the Christmas box and pulled out a creepy-looking baby angel tree topper. “Ugh.” He threw it into an already bulging bag of rubbish.

“I can’t go around making eyes at whatever men I like the look of,” Aziraphale continued when Newt showed no sign of responding. “Most of them are straight, and having feelings for a straight bloke is the absolute worst. And then add on the fact that I’m an…acquired taste, looks-wise.”

“You say that like I’m some Adonis,” Newt said, a wry smile turning up the corner of his mouth.

Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed. “Who says you’re not?”

“I have a mirror, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale laughed. “I think you look just fine. But let’s not fight.”

He reached into the box again and pulled out a set of ugly plastic ornaments. “I think these can all go. There’s no way She’ll ever use these again.” He dumped the rest of the box’s contents into the rubbish bag.

Newt took the box and began to break it down. “Anyway. I won’t push it, but if you ever do find someone promising you can always tell me.”

Aziraphale cut open the next box, Crowley’s name on the tip of his tongue. He trusted Newt not to spill the beans. But telling him meant giving this thing life, hope. And then Newt would know. He would look at all Aziraphale’s interactions with Crowley with new eyes. And Aziraphale couldn’t stand for Newt to watch him pine over a crush that was going absolutely nowhere.

“If I find someone promising,” Aziraphale said, not trusting himself to look up, “I’ll tell you in a heartbeat.”

\--

That night, as they walked together to the curry place, Newt screwed his courage to the sticking place and suggested stargazing. As Newt rambled nervously about the hill he’d heard about just outside town that was supposed to be good for it, Aziraphale stole a glance at Anathema. She was looking at Newt with a fond expression. When Newt’s ramble petered out, she opened her mouth to respond, but Crowley cut in instead.

“Oh, Newt! For me? How romantic!” He put a hand over his heart and grabbed Newt’s hand with the other.

Aziraphale groaned internally. Newt burned with embarrassment and tried to take his hand away. Crowley let him, only to grab Newt around the waist and swing him around. Aziraphale would have laughed if Newt hadn’t looked like he wanted to die on the spot.

“My darling, if you want a reason to hold my hand, you need only ask,” Crowley said, pitching his voice high and fluttery and squeezing tighter as Newt struggled to get away. “We can dance forever in the moonlight!”

“That’s enough,” Aziraphale said sharply. Why did Crowley have to do that? Couldn’t he give Newt a break for once? “I think it sounds like an excellent idea.”

Crowley dropped a burning-red Newt, who slunk back to Aziraphale’s side. He shoved his hands into his pockets and slouched back into line with Anathema.

“Fine. Sorry, Newt. Sure, let’s do it.”

Aziraphale risked another glance at Anathema and hid a smile. Anathema was glaring at Crowley, who was cringing under her furious gaze. He had a feeling Crowley was in for it later.

“I think so, too,” Anathema said, turning pointedly away from Crowley and towards Newt. “How about we bring a couple bottles of wine and some blankets? I have a few I don’t mind getting dirty.”

\--

Newt was in luck—the Saturday after was clear and cold. After dinner, they all piled into Dick Turpin, Newt’s tiny, ancient Reliant Robin. Any other car would have been better, but Newt had insisted on driving anyway. The telescope, blankets, and wine took up an entire seat’s worth of space, so Anathema, Crowley, and Aziraphale had to squeeze into the remaining two. Anathema ended up sitting on Aziraphale’s lap.

“Sorry, I know you wanted to,” Anathema said to Crowley from atop Aziraphale’s knees as they rattled down the street. Aziraphale laughed, but Crowley said nothing, just glared at her with more venom than Aziraphale thought necessary.

It took about fifteen minutes to get to the hill, and Aziraphale felt every second of it. Whenever Newt turned, Crowley would press into him. It was a charged version of the game he’d played with his cousins when they were younger on car trips, where they would smash against each other every time the car turned a corner. Crowley was wearing his usual leather jacket and thin black trousers, and Aziraphale could feel his body heat through the trousers when their legs brushed.

He was half-sad, half-grateful when Newt finally made it to the hill. It was perfect—treeless and grassy, rising higher than the surrounding hills by several meters. They gathered the blankets, telescope, and wine and headed up. Aziraphale was panting by the time they reached the top, wishing (not for the first time) than he exercised a bit more often. He tried to hide it, but no one commented or even seemed to notice.

Aziraphale soon forgot his embarrassment as they searched for the perfect spot to set up the telescope. When they found a nice spot, they spread out the blankets while Newt set up the telescope. It became obvious as they took turns looking through it that Newt had done his homework. He knew what kinds of stars most of the famous ones were, and he told the three of them a little bit about all the ones that were visible. After some time, they sat back on the blankets and opened the wine. They sat as a group and talked for a while, getting pleasantly tipsy. Newt showed no sign of making a move. Eventually, Aziraphale caught Newt’s eye and winked.

“I think I’d like to go see the view from the other side of the hill,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind if I take a blanket with me.” 

“Not at all,” said Anathema. There was a smile in her voice. Aziraphale was sure she knew exactly what was going on and allowing it to happen. As he stood up and drained his wine, he thought to himself (for the thousandth or so time) how very much he liked her.

He grabbed a blanket, walked about thirty yards away, and spread it out over the grass. Not far enough to be out of shouting distance, but enough for privacy. He hoped Crowley would take the hint as well and go for a walk or something. He lay down and laced his hands together behind his head, gazing upward. He couldn’t point out any of the constellations except for Ursa Major, but he knew the legends behind most of them. Greek myths had been a passion of his in primary school. He’d come upon a copy of D’Aulaires Book of Greek Myths in the library and immediately been hooked.

He felt a presence behind him and tilted his head back for an upside-down look. Crowley had taken the hint.

“Budge up,” Crowley said. Aziraphale did, and Crowley lay down next to him, leaving two feet or so of space between them. Aziraphale thought briefly about following Newt’s lead and taking Crowley’s hand, then laughed at himself and put it out of his head.

“What are we doing here?” Crowley muttered.

“Because Newt wanted it,” Aziraphale said sternly. “You’ve been awfully mean to him, you know.”

Crowley let out a long breath. “So Anathema has told me.”

Aziraphale giggled. “I had a feeling she’d rip you a new one after the other night.”

“Yeah. I deserved it. It’s just hard not to laugh at him sometimes. He might as well carry around a neon sign that says I Like You, Anathema.”

“If I tell you something, will you promise not to tell Anathema?” Aziraphale murmured.

“All right.”

“Newt used to gaze in the window at her on his way to work every day, like a character in a rom-com,” Aziraphale said. “Isn’t that funny? I think he would have just pressed his nose to the glass and sighed forever if I hadn’t met her and introduced them.” He laughed again, thinking about Newt’s bug eyes when he’d found out that Aziraphale knew her.

Crowley didn’t laugh. He went completely still and quiet for a long time. Aziraphale had worried he would snort and make fun of Newt, but he didn’t.

“Crowley?” he said eventually, when Crowley still showed no sign of responding.

“Yeah,” Crowley said in a strained sort of voice.

“Are you all right?”

“Yup. Just fine.” Crowley crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s cold.”

Aziraphale forgot sometimes that other people got cold. He had always run warm, but as he got older and his body padded out, he found that he barely ever felt the cold. Of course skinny Crowley would be freezing.

“Oh, my goodness! And you’re probably wearing just a t-shirt under that jacket. Here, pull the edge of the blanket over you.”

Crowley hesitated, then scooted over until he and Aziraphale were almost touching and pulled the blanket over himself.

Aziraphale was not going to think about how close Crowley was. He was not going to turn his head and look at his face, just a few inches away from his on the blanket. He was not going to listen to the sound of Crowley’s breathing. He was definitely not going to think about Crowley’s hair, which had spread out on the blanket far enough that it tickled Aziraphale’s cheek, or the sharp, spicy smell of his aftershave.

“Do you know any of the constellations?” Aziraphale said, desperate to distract himself.

“I know all of them.”

“Really?” Aziraphale forgot that he wasn’t going to turn his head and did it anyway, finding his face suddenly only a nose-length away from Crowley’s cheekbone. His heart jumped in his chest, and he whipped it back seconds before Crowley turned to face him.

“Yeah. I liked stars as a kid.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. “Did you know all those things that Newt was telling us earlier?”

Crowley let out a long breath. It was warm on Aziraphale’s cheek. “Yes. Don’t tell him.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, then closed it. Crowley hadn’t reacted well the last time Aziraphale had called him “nice”. There was nothing that could stop him from thinking it, though.

“Don’t know any of the stories behind ‘em, though,” Crowley added, turning his head to face upward once more.

 _How…perfect_. “I do,” Aziraphale said. “Why don’t you point out a few and I’ll tell you about them?”

“All right,” Crowley said quietly. He freed his arm from the blanket and pointed. “That’s Perseus. It’s shaped sort of like a wishbone, with that brighter star in the middle…”

It took longer than Aziraphale would have guessed to pick out a constellation. There were so many stars in between the ones that were supposed to be connected that Aziraphale continually got confused. It must have been frustrating for Crowley to try and explain it to him—not that he ever showed it. He was patient, as always, and when Aziraphale finally saw the outline of Perseus, he rewarded Crowley with the fullest version of the story behind it that he could remember. The telling took a while, because Crowley asked him questions about Andromeda, who also turned out to have a constellation, and then Medusa and the different interpretations of her story. His throat was starting to get dry when he was done, but he didn’t dare go back to Newt and Anathema until they were ready.

“I think that’s all I’ve got for Perseus,” he said, clearing his throat. “Have you got another one for me, my dear?”

“Yeah. That’s Cassiopeia. It’s shaped like a W, starting with that star right there. See it?”

Aziraphale squinted into the sky, trying to follow Crowley’s finger. “I’m sorry, I don’t…”

Crowley let his hand drop and took in a thoughtful breath. “Can I…try something? I’ve got an idea that might help you see them better.”

“Whatever you like, my dear. I’m sorry I’m so useless at this.”

Crowley shook his head. “No you’re not. It’s hard.”

Then he held out one of those graceful, long-fingered hands. “Give…give me your hand?”

Aziraphale stopped breathing, then started again. It meant nothing, he told himself. Nothing, nothing, nothing. He put his hand in Crowley’s, hoping Crowley couldn’t feel how fast his pulse was going through the thin veins of his wrist. He didn’t mean to, but he squeezed a little when their fingers laced together. Crowley’s hands were so _cold_.

“Right,” Crowley said when their hands were fully intertwined. He scooted closer. “Watch.”

Aziraphale watched. Crowley used their joined hands to trace Cassiopeia again, starting with the star on top, and this time Aziraphale saw the little zigzag among the millions of glittering stars overhead. He smiled.

“Do you see it?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said softly. “I see it.” He pulled his hand slowly, reluctantly, out of Crowley’s.

“Thank you, my dear. Are you sure you aren’t still cold? Your hands are absolutely freezing.”

“’M fine,” Crowley said. He would have been more believable if he hadn’t shivered again as he said it.

“Sure you are,” Aziraphale said, amused. “Why don’t you scoot over? I have an idea of my own.”

It was probably a terrible idea, but oh, how Aziraphale wanted it. Crowley looked at him, then scooted over. Aziraphale took a deep breath, then moved over until there was no more space between them. Arm pressed against arm, leg against leg, and warmth slowly seeped out from Aziraphale into Crowley’s frozen side. Then Aziraphale pulled the edge of the blanket over himself until it overlapped with the edge on Crowley’s side. As he tucked them in, he felt Crowley shiver with the relief of warming up at last.

“There,” he whispered. “Isn’t that better?”

Crowley turned his head, and his sharp nose just barely brushed against Aziraphale’s temple. “Yes,” he whispered into Aziraphale’s ear. “Thanks.”

Aziraphale’s stomach flipped. He did not turn his head to look Crowley in the face—that would have been too much—but he couldn’t stop himself from squirming just a little bit closer into Crowley’s firm side. Crowley’s hand brushed his, and he pulled it away to rest atop his belly, in case it got any ideas.

“You’re welcome,” he managed to say. “Do, ah. Do you want to hear about Cassiopeia?”

“Sure,” Crowley murmured, still into Aziraphale’s ear. “I think I might have heard of her before. She was boastful, and she pissed someone off?”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and shuddered. “Yes, the Nereids, the daughters of Nereus…”

\--

It was not fair, Aziraphale thought around two in the morning. It was simply not fair to have the person he wanted so close, for so long. His poor heart leapt every time Crowley’s nose—or sometimes even his mouth—skimmed his ear, or when Crowley’s hand brushed ever so lightly against his leg. Every time it happened, he stuttered and lost his train of thought. And every time, Crowley would ask him if something was wrong, his voice soft and sweet in Aziraphale’s ear, and Aziraphale had to lie and say everything was fine. He’d thought at first that he would get used to it, but each time Crowley touched him his heart reacted as if it were the first time.

“Do you want to stop?” Crowley said when Aziraphale had finished all the constellations they could see, plus a few others they couldn’t. “You’ve got to be tired.”

Aziraphale was very tired. His eyelids had been getting heavier and heavier for a while now, and his throat was bone-dry. But Newt and Anathema hadn’t called them back, and he didn’t want to get up yet anyway. If he could have had his way, this night would last forever.

“A little,” he admitted. “I think we’d better wait for them, though.”

Crowley laughed, a pleasant vibration against Aziraphale’s side. “I’m not arguing with that. But you don’t have to keep entertaining me while we wait.”

“What do you want to do, then?”

“I’m sure we can think of something,” Crowley whispered, nosing gently against Aziraphale’s ear. The back of his hand, warm at last, brushed against Aziraphale’s side. “I’m open to any…ideas you might have.”

Aziraphale inhaled sharply. He had lots of ideas. All of them concerned Crowley’s mouth, and not one involved talking, but surely Crowley wasn’t having the same thoughts he was.

Or was he?

Slowly, slowly, Aziraphale turned his head so that he and Crowley were facing each other. He could barely see the outline of Crowley’s head in the darkness, but the stars shone in those lovely eyes of his. His mouth must have been open slightly, because Aziraphale could feel his breath on his own lips, now only inches away.

“I,” he whispered, faltering as his nerve failed him. He wet his lips and tried again. “I think—”

“’Ziraphale! Crowley!”

Crowley’s head jerked away at the sound of Anathema’s voice, and Aziraphale followed his example a split second later. He pulled the blanket off and rolled away, his heart thumping at the thought of what he’d been moments away from doing. Thank goodness Anathema had called out when she did. He could have done something incredibly stupid just now.

He stood up, groaning. Lying on the ground for over two hours really made a body stiff. When he turned back around, Crowley was still lying on the ground. Aziraphale couldn’t see him very well, but he didn’t seem to have moved at all.

“Do you need a hand up, my dear?”

“No,” Crowley growled, throwing the blanket off. He rocked forward and stood as Aziraphale had (with a few expletives thrown in) then picked up the edge of the blanket and waited. Aziraphale silently picked up his end in response, and they folded it together. When they were done, Aziraphale tucked it under his arm and began to head back to the other side of the hill, Crowley slouching sullenly at his side. It would have been nice to break the sudden, strange tension between them, but Aziraphale’s tired brain couldn’t come up with a single thing to say.

“There you are,” Anathema said when they approached. “Thought you’d gotten lost.”

Aziraphale laughed. Crowley didn’t—he was too busy glaring a hole in Anathema’s head. Aziraphale sighed and gave up on him.

He turned to Newt instead, hoping for some sign of how the night had gone. But there was no need to guess. A grin that big could only mean that everything had gone to plan. His mouth turned up in a small, secret smile. In that moment, the ache of his unrequited feelings for Crowley faded to almost nothing in the face of his happiness for Newt.

He yawned.

“Let’s go home, my dears. It’s been a lovely night, but I think I’m quite—ah, ah, ahhh—quite ready for bed.”

“Me too,” Newt said happily, gathering the telescope under his arm and bouncing down the hill. “You know, we ought to do this again sometime.”

Anathema skipped ahead to walk by his side. Aziraphale thought he saw her take his hand, but he couldn’t be sure. He smiled anyway as her voice drifted back to him and Crowley, walking behind them down the windswept hill.

"Yeah," she said, her voice a warm, bright sound against the cold of the night. “Let’s do this again.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness I'm tired. I'm sorry this is so late; I sat down to edit this chapter a few hours ago and ended up rewriting half of it. Didn't help that I forgot that I promised to read to my partner from the Silmarillion before they went to bed and ended up having an hour-long conversation about religious symbolism in LoTR vs. Chronicles of Narnia. I'm too tired to answer comments right now like I usually do, but I promise I will when I wake up! I love all your comments; I mean it when I say that I treasure each and every one <3


	11. Crowley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A leap in the dark. Or two? 
> 
> (see endnotes for CW)

Anathema: Hey, do you want to get coffee when I finish? I’m done at 1:30, you have a gap then, right?

Anathema: Crowley?

Anathema: Crowleyyyy

Anathema: Are you STILL pouting

Anathema: Omg

Anathema: I said I was sorry! Come onnn 😭

Crowley: Bloody hell, Anathema

Crowley: I was in lab. Phone was off

Crowley: Sure, let’s do it

Crowley: Where?

Anathema: Oh yeah

Anathema: I forgot, sorry 😬

Anathema: Place next to the bio lab then?

Crowley: Sure. It’s fine 😂

Crowley: …I don’t pout

Crowley: I’m not 5

Anathema: You refused to look at me and spoke in monosyllables the whole ride home

Anathema: If that’s not pouting I don’t know what is

Crowley: …

Crowley: just get over here

Anathema: Kay 😊

Crowley scowled at his phone, then locked it with a _snick_ and stuffed it into his pocket. He picked up his coffee and held it to his mouth, tilting it until the liquid just barely touched his tongue. Still too hot. He set it down on the bench next to him and stretched himself out, resting his elbows on the back of the bench and extending his legs out as far as they could go. He closed his eyes, safely hidden behind his favorite sunglasses, and tilted his face up to catch the early afternoon sun.

It had now been two days since that night on the hill. If Crowley could have had his way, he would have lived that night over and over again. The closest he could get was closing his eyes and remembering everything just as it was—which was what he was doing now. The ground, cold and still hard even through a thick layer of grass. Icy wind, piercing through the blanket and his clothes like they were nothing. A scratchy blanket, pulled tight over his body in a futile attempt to keep warm.

None of those things really mattered, though, because wrapped up with him in that blanket had been the best person in the whole wide world. Crowley sighed, combing through his memory for every detail. The feel of Aziraphale’s plush body against his, so soft and impossibly warm. His little wiggles and fidgets, each one bringing him a little nearer and sending frissons of delight down Crowley’s spine, and his cute chubby hands, sitting frustratingly out of reach except when Crowley was showing him a new constellation. The flowery smell of his hair, silky curls tickling his nose as he pressed his face ever closer to Aziraphale’s ear. The sound of his soft, sweet voice as he told story after story, interrupted occasionally by little noises of surprise every time Crowley shifted closer, and the light puff of his breath against Crowley’s mouth when they were finally face to face. Just the memory of it made him shiver.

God, they had been so _close_. Crowley had almost screamed in frustration when Aziraphale rolled away, sure Aziraphale had been about to kiss him. Even worse, Aziraphale had then proceeded to pretend like they’d been sitting six feet apart the whole time. All the mixed signals were making Crowley’s head spin. Surely Aziraphale knew what he was after by now? And wasn’t he after the same thing? It had been Aziraphale’s idea to cuddle under the blanket, after all. Or was it just a nice gesture to keep Crowley from freezing to death? Crowley rubbed his face with one hand and groaned.

“You all right?”

Crowley opened his eyes. Anathema was standing in front of him, looking witchy as usual. Long-sleeved black dress, high-heeled boots, and purple-nailed hands, which were already wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee. Her head was cocked to one side, perfect eyebrows drawn together in concern.

“Yeah,” Crowley mumbled, scooting over to make room for her. “Just waiting for my coffee to cool down.”

Anathema swept her long skirt out of the way and sat, opening the lid of her own coffee to let it cool once she was settled. She shot him a skeptical sideways glance.

“And you decided to have a quick existential crisis while you were waiting?”

Crowley opened his mouth to make a retort, then closed it. It wasn’t as if she was wrong. He sighed and picked up his coffee, taking a tentative sip. Almost cool enough, but not quite.

“Will you please tell me what happened the other night?” Anathema pleaded. “I won’t laugh, I promise.”

“I know you won’t,” Crowley mumbled. “There isn’t a lot more than what I’ve already said. Kept getting closer and closer. Had him all wrapped up in the blanket with me. Flirted as much as I could without freaking him out. Finally got him to look at me. Was literal inches away from kissing him, or him kissing me, when you called out. Or so I thought.”

“Or so you thought?”

“Then he jumped up, dusted himself off, and didn’t look sideways at me for the rest of the night.”

“Oh,” Anathema said quietly. She sighed.

“I owe you an apology, actually,” Crowley said, unslouching somewhat and turning to face her. “You had no way of knowing what was going on. I shouldn’t have been such an arsehole to you afterward. I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” Anathema said with a small smile. “I understand why you were so frustrated now. For the record, I don’t think he’s messing with you on purpose.”

“Then why is he doing it?” Crowley muttered.

Anathema pursed her lips. “I think…he’s scared.”

“Of me?”

“No…of himself. That he’ll mess it up. That he’s not good enough. Just listen to the things he says about himself. He constantly puts himself down, have you noticed that?”

Crowley had noticed, but he’d put it down to humility. He couldn’t believe Aziraphale actually meant it when he said he was useless and terrible at everything, when obviously he wasn’t. He stared off into the distance, seeing hundreds of past interactions in a new light.

“All right,” he said slowly. “Something to think about. Enough about me, though. How was it with Newt? I mean, I know _he_ had a good time, but did you?” He grinned, remembering the look Newt had worn when he and Aziraphale had come back, like he was about to sprout wings and fly straight to the moon.

“I did,” Anathema said proudly. “He asked if he could hold my hand. Isn’t that sweet?”

Crowley snorted into his coffee.

“Consent is sexy, Crowley,” Anathema snapped.

“Oh, for—that’s not what I’m laughing at. Is that all it took to send him to outer space?”

Anathema looked down and laughed. “No. He asked if he could kiss me, too. The first one wasn’t all that great, but he’s a quick learner. 10/10, would kiss again.”

Crowley supposed he ought to be jealous of Newt, but he wasn’t. Newt deserved to be happy, and if Anathema was happy with him, then Crowley could be happy for them both, even if he couldn’t manage it for himself. He smiled at her, a bright, genuine smile.

“Are you two a thing, then? Or going to be?”

“Maybe,” Anathema said, serious again. She sipped her coffee. “I’m not in any hurry, and he seems willing to wait. I’ve always hated dating, you know? You have to decide whether you like someone over the course of one or two dates, and if you take any longer than that then you’re “leading them on.” This is much better.”

Crowley considered this. He’d been on both sides of that dilemma before, so while he didn’t envy Newt the wait, he understood Anathema’s logic. Newt seemed mature enough to be patient, though, and Crowley had a feeling he would be graceful about it if Anathema decided not to date him after all.

“Don’t keep him dangling too long,” he said eventually. “Not because he seems like the type to get pushy. The opposite, actually. I think he’d let you keep him wondering forever if he thought that was what you wanted.”

Anathema shifted and fiddled with her coffee cup. “You’re right. I’m being mean, aren’t I?”

“No,” Crowley said reassuringly. “It would be worse if you jumped into a relationship you weren’t sure about and have it fall apart. Just keep track of the time, and give him a straight answer when you’re ready.”

“As opposed to a—no, I’m not going to finish that sentence.”

“A gay answer? Is that what you were going to say?”

Anathema giggled. Crowley rolled his eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“You keep me around anyway, though,” Anathema said cheerfully. “And you’re just as annoying as me.”

“Yeah, but I’m stuck with you. You could quit anytime and get rid of me.”

Anathema tilted her head in confusion, then froze. She shot him a suspicious, panicky look out of the corner of her eye. Crowley smirked and nudged her with his elbow.

“C’mon, Anathema. I know you don’t need to work. Nobody has a house and a wardrobe like yours unless their family’s rich.”

Anathema stared into her coffee for a long time. Crowley’s smile slid away. He was just about to apologize for outing her when she finally spoke.

“I’m not going to lie and say it isn’t true, because it is. I just got so tired of having everything handed to me, you know? And hanging out with other people who also had everything handed to them. I got into USC, you know, and UCLA, too. But I wanted to come here, where nobody knows who my parents are, and try living like a normal person for once.”

“I figured it was something like that,” Crowley said, scooting a little closer. “You know you don’t owe me an explanation, right?

“I know,” Anathema said, taking a long, slow sip of coffee. “I’m really grateful for you, though. You’ve been a good friend to me.”

Crowley stared at her. “What are you talking about? You’ve done way more for me than I’ve ever done for you.”

Anathema leaned back, her shoulders relaxing out of their tight hunch. “Oh, let’s see…you pick me up and drive me home every time we have the same shift, you’ve pretended to be my boyfriend to get rid of creepy assholes seven—no, eight—times, you bug the crap out of me about locking my apartment and carrying pepper spray, you figured out what Newt was planning last weekend and asked me if I was comfortable with it beforehand…Shall I go on?”

“No,” Crowley muttered, trying and failing not to writhe in discomfort. “’M good.”

Anathema laughed. “I’ll never understand why you hate it so much when people say nice things about you. You should see your face whenever Aziraphale gives you a compliment; it’s hilarious.”

“Fuck off.”

“No.”

Crowley smiled into his coffee. They sat together in companionable silence for a while longer, sipping at their coffee and watching streams of students go by on their way to class. Crowley finished first, but he waited for Anathema to finish before standing up to go throw away his cup. Anathema stood with him, and when they’d disposed of their cups they began to wander in no particular direction, just walking for its own sake.

“Tell you what,” Anathema said as they passed the last of the lab buildings. “We both have to get it done before the end of the year, all right? You have to tell Aziraphale you like him, and I have to figure out whether I want to date Newt or not.”

“That was always the plan anyway,” Crowley muttered, kicking a rock off the path.

“Call it extra incentive, then. Accountability. Are you in?”

“Nnn…yeah, all right.”

Anathema stopped under the shade of a big oak tree and held out a solemn hand. “Deal?”

“Oh, come on—”

“ _Deal?_ ”

Crowley took Anathema’s hand and shook it. “Deal.”

\--

Time passed.

It soon became apparent, to Crowley at least, who was going to fulfil their end of the bargain first. Newt, emboldened by the success of his stargazing endeavor, grew exponentially bolder as the weeks passed, and Anathema responded in kind. Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged more than a few amused looks across the table as the flirting got more and more overt. Not that either of them minded. Crowley was happy if Anathema was happy, and Aziraphale looked about ready to burst his buttons with pride that Newt was finally coming out of his shell.

Less apparent was how Crowley would be received if he were to try the same thing with Aziraphale. Aziraphale, for all his friendly openness, wasn’t easy to get a read on. He did not touch Crowley any more than he touched Newt or Anathema. Nor did he make comments about his appearance, ask for his number, or try to make plans that didn’t involve work or other people being present. The only clue Crowley got from watching him was that Aziraphale always gave him a beaming smile whenever they saw each other, whether in passing or when they met up after work. Other than that, there was no indication that they could be anything other than friends.

Anathema, naturally, still thought he ought to try. She kept saying that she had “a good feeling” about it, but when Crowley pressed her for details, she couldn’t point to anything that Aziraphale had said or done to prove that he liked Crowley as more than a friend. Crowley scoffed at her suggestion that he just come right out and say it. He needed a sign, something to go on other than a nebulous “good feeling,” and he was willing to wait for it until the day before graduation if necessary. And he probably would have, if something hadn’t happened to force his hand. Or some _body_ , rather.

That somebody was Newt. And the funny thing was, he didn’t even know it.

\--

The day that everything changed was a burning hot one. Crowley had spent most of it in the garden, weeding and trimming. The rosebushes were last, and when he finished with them he sat back on his heels to inspect his handiwork. “Now, don’t fuck up,” he muttered venomously at them. “I just put a lot of effort into you; I expect results.”

The roses, being plants, said nothing.

“Remember what I’ve told you,” Crowley said. “There will be consequences for those who disobey.” He gave the flowers a last intimidating glare and stood up, stretching and admiring the rest of the garden. His legs ached, he was covered in dirt, and he knew he’d have a sunburn on the back of his neck later, but he was happy.

Up until Crowley had gone away for university, he had never lived in a real house. He and his dad had always lived in shitty little flats. Wherever the rent was cheapest, that was where they went. So, it was an exciting and special thing whenever they visited his grandmother, who lived in a little house in the countryside. The house was nothing special—filled with old-lady kitsch and in desperate need of repairs—but to young Crowley, it had been magical. No neighbors farting on the other side of the wall, no dark, damp hallways and staircases, and no landlord coming in for inspections and making his dad nervous. And, most importantly, no Mum. She and his grandmother had never gotten along, so she didn’t come for any of their visits even when she was living with them.

The crown jewel of the house was his grandmother’s garden. She mostly grew vegetables and herbs, but she always planted some flowers, too. “Sometimes you need a little beauty, even if it isn’t useful,” she used to say. Crowley used to follow her around as she worked in the garden. She taught him how to pull weeds out the right way (“Don’t leave the roots in, love, it’ll grow right back”) and how to stake tomatoes. She showed him that you could cover the ground with old newspapers and straw to protect the roots, how to prune a rosebush, and how to tell when a fruit or a vegetable is exactly ripe.

Yelling at the plants was an inside joke between them. When Crowley was six years old, he had been to visit his grandmother and found that the flowers she’d planted the last time he’d been there had all died.

“I moved them outside too early. They just weren’t hardy enough,” she had said, a little sadly. “It’s all right. I can always try again.”

That had not been good enough for Crowley. After she’d replanted her flowers, he had marched out to the garden and screamed at the top of his six-year-old lungs that _they better grow right this time or else,_ stomping and shaking his fists like only a small child can. His grandmother had laughed so hard that tears streamed down her face. The flowers, miraculously, had flourished. From then on, she encouraged him to threaten all her new plants. (“I think they need some fear struck into their little green hearts, love; won’t you do the honors?”)

When Crowley’s grandmother died, his dad had sold her house. Crowley was then twelve and chock-full of easily misdirected pre-teen anger. The reality that he would never see her again was hard enough, but the thought that some stranger was going to take her house and her garden, probably letting it waste to nothing or bulldozing it to make way for some modern monstrosity—that was too much. He had said—yelled, really—a lot of things to his dad about it he later regretted and apologized for. His dad had apologized too, telling him that he hadn’t wanted to but that they desperately needed the money. The loss of the house still hurt, but when Crowley got a new set of school uniforms instead of making the old ones last for a third year, he made his peace with it. It was like his grandmother’s last gift to him.

Crowley realized that he’d been staring intently at the zinnias for far too long and shook himself out of thought. He went inside, washed his hands, and checked his phone. Two missed calls and twelve texts from Anathema. He skipped reading them and just called her.

“Hey, what’s going on?” he said when she picked up.

“You didn’t read the texts, did you.”

“No.”

She huffed. “You’re so lazy. Newt asked me on a date!”

“Did he, now. And you said yes?”

Another, more indignant huff. “Of course I did!”

Crowley laughed to himself. Anathema had decided weeks ago that she was going to give Newt the go-ahead to actually dating, but Crowley had talked her into waiting for him to make a move. Newt seemed to be enjoying slowly romancing her; it seemed a shame to rob him of the opportunity to ask her out properly.

“Glad he finally managed it,” Crowley said, wandering over to the window to gaze out at his garden. “What’s it going to be? Is he going to break the bank taking you to the Ritz or something?”

Anathema let out a nervous-sounding laugh. “No, uh…we’re going to a concert a couple towns over. I mentioned I liked the band months ago and he remembered. Isn’t that sweet?”

“Yeah. Well done, Newt. When is it?”

“…Saturday,” Anathema mumbled. “This Saturday night.”

Crowley froze. “Saturday—so wait, you’re—”

“—not going to be able to come for dinner, I know, but think what a great opportunity this is! I bet Aziraphale will be different with me and Newt not around! It’s the perfect—”

“Anathema,” Crowley said through gritted teeth, “Did you set this up? Does Newt know or something?”

“No,” Anathema snapped. “I didn’t, and he doesn’t. He cleared it with Aziraphale first, and he’s been worrying ever since I said yes that you’re going to be mad. He’s probably going to message you later to make sure you’re really okay with it, and you better be nice.”

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up at the ferocity of her response. “Whoa, hey, hold up. I believe you. And I’m not going to be a shithead to Newt.”

A long exhale. “All right.”

“I know I have been before. But I won’t, I promise. Don’t worry, okay? About me, about Aziraphale, about Saturday. It’ll be fine. Just…it’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” she said quietly. “I only want you both to be happy. You know that, right?”

Crowley sighed. It was a good thing Anathema couldn’t see him as he slumped against the counter, pushing his sunglasses out of the way so he could rub his eyes.

“Yeah. I know. I gotta go, okay? Just got out of the garden. Need a shower.”

“Okay,” Anathema mumbled. “Talk to you later.”

Crowley winced at the sadness in her voice. “Bye, ‘Nathema.”

“Bye.”

Crowley waited for her to end the call, then dropped his phone on the counter and slid the rest of the way down onto the floor. He crossed his arms and put his head into his hands. So they would be alone together at last, and Crowley still with no idea whether Aziraphale liked him or not. But…maybe Anathema was right? Aziraphale might be different when they were alone. He’d gotten a lot friendlier when they were stargazing, hadn’t he? Maybe if they were alone again Crowley would finally see the sign he’d been waiting for.

But how to do it? Crowley looked up and stared unseeingly at the hand towel that hung crookedly over the handle of the oven door. The atmosphere had to be right. They needed somewhere dark, quiet, private, but not _too_ private. He squinted at the faded flower pattern on the towel, racking his brain.

Then suddenly the answer hit him like a rock to the head, and he began to laugh, long legs flattening to the floor as he chuckled at his own obtuseness. He shook his head at himself and leapt to his feet.

Problem solved. And now—one hellfire-hot shower, coming right up.

\--

The week dragged by—or did it fly? It depended on whether Crowley was feeling optimistic about his plan or not. Anathema was right about Newt. He messaged Crowley multiple times over the course of the week, alternately apologizing and asking for advice. Crowley didn’t mind answering Newt’s questions, though he could have used some advice himself. Anathema avoided the subject of him and Aziraphale all week, and Crowley let her. Better to let her think he wasn’t planning on doing anything than to build her up and possibly disappoint her later.

He was jittery all day Saturday, and when the time came to pick Aziraphale up at the bookshop after closing up, his hands were practically dripping with sweat. He wiped them impatiently on his trousers. There was no need for this. Everything was going to be fine. And if it wasn’t, he had enough alcohol at home to make him forget his own name.

When he reached the window, he paused a moment before knocking, as he always did. Aziraphale looked so beautiful. Cream-colored shirt tonight, with a rich brown waistcoat and a tartan bow tie. His hair was illuminated by the streetlights, making it shine like a halo. He was resting his head in one hand and holding a book in the other. Crowley noticed the little crease that always appeared when he was concentrating and smiled, tapping gently on the window.

Aziraphale looked up, caught sight of Crowley, and gave him a smile that lit up his whole face. Crowley waved casually as if his insides hadn’t turned into an entire cloud of butterflies. Aziraphale marked his place in his book and walked away. Crowley went to the front door, resisting the urge to jump or run or something to burn off all the energy that was suddenly coursing through his body. This was ridiculous. He didn’t normally react like this when he saw Aziraphale. But it wasn’t a normal night, was it?

“Hello, my dear,” said Aziraphale when he made it outside. “I suppose Anathema told you about her date with Newt?”

Crowley’s heart always sang a little when Aziraphale called him “my dear,” even though he knew Aziraphale called everyone that. “Yeah,” he said. “Hope he brought rubbers.”

“ _Really_ , Crowley.”

He grinned. “You’re right. He’ll probably pass out from the excitement before that.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “Time to change the subject. What do you want for dinner?”

“Sushi?”

Aziraphale cocked his head. “Fine with me.”

They started towards the sushi place. Crowley thought about taking Aziraphale’s hand, then chickened out. _Later._

As they neared the restaurant, Aziraphale threw him a cheeky grin. “You know, if you’re too embarrassed to ask for a fork, I can always do it for you…”

Crowley reached the door before him and yanked it open. “Shut up.”

\--

Crowley had worried that it would be awkward without Newt and Anathema, and it was, at first. He could tell Aziraphale was feeling their absence as well. But after a few minutes they were talking just like they always did. They talked about their classes, things they’d watched or read recently, and the weirder customers they’d had to deal with in the last week.

“He always wants books on cassette, and it makes me want to cry,” said Aziraphale. “Nobody makes books on cassette anymore! He can’t listen to anything that was written any later than the nineties.”

He reached for a piece of nigiri, handling his chopsticks perfectly, and put it in his mouth with the same reverence he had for all the food he ate. Crowley had noticed that if Aziraphale wasn’t paying attention, he made little noises of contentment as he chewed. He had never pointed it out; he knew Aziraphale would stop doing it in front of him if he did.

“Why doesn’t he use CDs?” said Crowley, spearing a piece of sushi on a chopstick.

“That’s not how you use—oh, never mind. We’ve tried to teach him how to use them, even helped him order a CD player, but he just can’t quite wrap his head around the mechanics of using it.” [1]

“That’s rough,” said Crowley through his bite. He swallowed. “I haven’t had to deal much with old people and technology. My dad’s tech-savvy enough to solve his own problems.”

Aziraphale was quiet for a moment. “I haven’t heard you talk much about your family,” he said. “It’s perfectly fine if you’d rather not, but I wouldn’t mind knowing more.”

Crowley’s heart jumped into his throat. He’d been preparing to answer that question for a long time. Normally when people asked, he just said his parents were divorced in order to save everyone the time and the awkwardness. This was Aziraphale, though, and Crowley would rather jump in a lake of fire than tell him a lie like that.

“S’just me and dad. We look a lot alike; he’s where I got the hair from. He’s a bus driver, and he likes it. It’s lot better than some of the jobs he had when I was a kid. Mum…is in prison, and has been ever since I was in secondary.”

He looked up. Aziraphale was simply looking at him, cute chubby cheeks resting in his hands and elbows on the table. There was no judgement on his face, no pity. He was simply listening. Waiting for more, if Crowley was willing to give it. And strangely, Crowley found that he was. He took a breath and went on.

“She killed somebody. Not on purpose; she stole a car while she was high and hit a pedestrian with it, then crashed it into a tree. She already had a record by then and the jury wasn’t sympathetic, so they put her away for a long time.”

This was usually the point where people felt that they needed to say something. Nobody ever wanted to say outright that his mother sounded like a shitty person, so they usually said something vague about how hard “all that” must have been for him. Crowley would agree, and then allow them to change the subject to something less uncomfortable.

The truth was that it had all been a relief. She’d been in and out of his life ever since he’d been born, sometimes clean but usually not. Crowley had realized at age seven that there were worse things than not having a mother at all, and living with an unapologetic, unstable addict was one of them. Having her around meant things going missing to pay for her habit, strange, rude people coming over, Mum locking him in his room and telling him not to come out even to go to the toilet. His dad tried to keep her under control, would yell at her whenever he caught her shooting up or having people over when he wasn’t there.

But he loved her, and she was clever and managed to hide it from him most of the time, until she got in trouble with the law and couldn’t anymore. And then she would be gone again, leaving them in blessed peace until she got out of jail and wormed her way back in to his dad’s bed. The prison sentence had been a godsend. Crowley had cried at her sentencing, not from sadness but relief and an enormous, weighing sense of guilt.

“I’ve been to therapy, in case you were wondering,” he added before Aziraphale could say anything. “A lot of it. I’m fine.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows knitted together, then broke apart. His expression softened. He smiled and squeezed Crowley’s arm. A tingling feeling spread from the place that his hand rested, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“I believe it. You’ve done wonderfully in spite of it; your father must be very proud that you’ve made it this far. Thank you for telling me, my dear. I have a feeling you don’t tell many people about this, and I consider it a privilege.”

“Sure,” Crowley choked out. Aziraphale was so warm, and so sweet, and then _my dear_ again. It was too much. “What about you? Your family. They seem, nn, uh, nice. All wholesome and shit.” _Fuck. You’ve asked him that before. Come on, Crowley._

Aziraphale laughed and pulled his hand away, breaking the tension. “I don’t know if I would have put it that way, but yes. Sickeningly so, if the few people I’ve brought over to meet them can be believed.”

“What, do they follow you around with a plate of cookies, asking you to tell them about your day?”

“You know, I think they would, if I’d let them,” Aziraphale said, smiling.

“Well, take me home with you next time you visit, then,” Crowley said, popping the last piece of sushi into his mouth. “That sounds great.”

Something flickered in Aziraphale’s eyes, but it was gone so quickly that Crowley couldn’t be sure what it was. Aziraphale smiled his usual bright smile and pushed his plate away.

“Perhaps I will, then. I’d love to have any of you over, and my parents would be over the moon. Are we done?”

“I am if you are,” Crowley said, deliberately casual. He stretched and put his hands behind his head, slouching down until his legs hit the other side of the booth. “D’you need to get home?”

“No…not yet,” Aziraphale said cautiously. “Did you have something else in mind?”

“Come over to my house for a drink? I sit out in the garden with a glass of something most nights, now that it’s warmer out.”

Aziraphale beamed and wiggled one of his happy wiggles. It did something to Crowley’s stomach that was something between a flip and a shiver.

“Of course, my dear. That sounds lovely.”

\--

Crowley drove them both to his house, and Aziraphale clutched his chest and begged Crowley to drive slower, as he always did when Crowley drove him home. Crowley would never admit it, but he drove even more wildly than usual with Aziraphale in the car just to get a rise out of him. They went inside, and Crowley grabbed wine for Aziraphale and whiskey for himself, plus a couple of glasses. He could feel his jitters coming back as the two of them settled onto the porch swing, and he swallowed them down with a generous gulp of whiskey.

It was so strange, he thought as they settled in, that the weather in Tadfield was always just right for whatever you wanted to be doing on any given day. Tonight, for example, was the perfect night to sit outside with a glass of something that bloomed hot in your stomach and swing gently back and forth on a porch swing. The air was warm, with just a hint of a breeze now and then to keep it from getting hot, and the crickets were going like mad in the background.

He stole a glance at Aziraphale. Yes, perfect weather. Aziraphale was flushed pink in the dim light, and his skin shone faintly with sweat. If he got any warmer, the chances were good that he would untie his bowtie and the first button of his shirt, or possibly even take off his waistcoat, and wasn’t that always a treat.

Aziraphale caught him staring and met his gaze with a questioning look.

“Something on your mind, my dear?”

_My dear_. Crowley looked away, his heart pounding. “Nnn, uh…nothing much. Wish you could see it in color, that’s all.” He waved vaguely in the direction of the garden.

Aziraphale smiled. “Is that an invitation to come back?”

Crowley, who had been in the process of taking another mouthful of whiskey, coughed and nearly choked.

“Yeah,” he said, blinking his watering eyes clear. “Consider it an open, guh, open invitation.”

Aziraphale’s smile got bigger. He thanked Crowley and began gently prodding him to talk about his plants, which Crowley was happy to do. They drank some more, their talk flowing more freely with each glass of wine and whiskey. Aziraphale did indeed take off his bow tie and waistcoat, but no sooner had the soft curves of his torso been revealed than he stood up and turned off the dim, flickery porch light, saying something about their eyes adjusting soon enough. Crowley would have liked to keep it on—the better to look at him—but it was easier to be brave in the dark. When Aziraphale sat back down, Crowley took a gulp of his second whiskey and scooted in, holding his breath in hopes that Aziraphale wouldn’t move away.

He didn’t.

“Go on, my dear,” Aziraphale said, a smile in his voice. “You were telling me about your grandmother’s garden?”

“Right,” Crowley said, after another sip of his drink. “Mostly veg, although she grew flowers, too. When she could stop the deer from eating them. Bloody pests, they are.”

“Oh, but they’re so—”

“Do _not_ say pretty. They’re rats with hooves.”

Aziraphale giggled into his wine. “If you say so.”

The night drew on. Crowley repeated the same process over and over again. Take a drink, scoot closer, wait. Take a drink, scoot closer, wait. Aziraphale never moved, although he did sometimes pause as if he were wondering why Crowley was doing what he was doing. It seemed impossible that he couldn’t know, though, so Crowley tried his best not to worry about it. The whiskey certainly helped. By the time he started his fifth glass, he was feeling very confident indeed.

“Wanted to ask you something,” he said abruptly when their conversation hit a rare lull. “You said something earlier, ‘bout not having people over t’your house much. Why not? If your family’s so great.”

Aziraphale went very still and quiet. Crowley knew instantly that he’d hit a nerve and backpedaled.

“You don’t have to answer that if—”

“I don’t mind,” Aziraphale said, cutting across him and beginning to swing again. “My not having people over doesn’t have anything to do with my family. It’s because, for a long time, there were very few people who wanted to spend time with me.”

“Wait, what? But you’re so, so…” Crowley flapped a hand desperately in Aziraphale’s direction, willing a better word to come to him than the one he was thinking. None did. “…great,” he finished lamely.

Aziraphale laughed sadly. “Thank you. Most of my year throughout primary and early secondary school didn’t agree. They could tell there was something different about me even when we were very young, and once they had a name for it the unkindness got much, much worse.”

“You got bullied for being gay,” Crowley said flatly. Hot anger was beginning to rise in his chest, and he clutched his drink so tightly it began to slip in his fingers.

“I was…and I wasn’t,” Aziraphale said calmly. “They did make fun of me for being gay, for a little while. So I cried to my parents, and they stormed up to the school and rained holy fire on the administration about it, and the headmaster listened and made a big deal of punishing the worst of them and letting the whole school know that homophobia would not be tolerated. But there was a group of boys who didn’t like that I tattled on them, and they made it their personal mission to make my life hell because of it.”

He paused and shifted a little. “They were clever, I’ll give them that. They never bullied me for being gay again. Instead they bullied me for being fat, and reading too much, and being terrible at sports, and crying easily, and…oh, a lot of things. I stopped telling on them and just took it after a while, because they would just switch to something new whenever anyone tried to make them stop.”

Crowley was still angry, but now he was drowning in guilt, too. He’d known kids who got treated like that when he was in primary, and while he’d never participated in the cruelty, he’d never intervened, either. Before he even realized what he was doing, he’d closed the gap between him and Aziraphale and folded his soft, warm body into his arms.

“’M sorry,” he said into Aziraphale’s hair. God, it smelled so good. “I’d beat the shit out of all of ‘em right now if I knew where they lived.”

Aziraphale gave a small, watery laugh and relaxed into Crowley’s skinny chest. “That’s not necessary. But thank you.”

Crowley squeezed him tight enough to make him squeak, then reluctantly let go. “Offer stands if you ever change your mind.”

“I’ll remember that,” Aziraphale murmured, pulling (also reluctantly? Crowley’s fuzzy brain couldn’t be sure) away and straightening back up. “It had its perks, I suppose. I ended up making mostly female friends because of it, and that was an educational experience.”

“How so?”

“Oh, I learned all sorts of things. How to put on makeup, how to do your nails, how to braid hair. I’ve been told I’m very good at braiding. And all the things they look for in men, which has been very useful to Newt these past few months.”

Crowley laughed into his whiskey. “I bet it has.”

An idea occurred to him. He set down his whiskey and took the hair tie out of his hair, shaking it out so it tumbled down his back in a crinkled wave. “Wanna braid mine? I can’t, I haven’t got the patience or the, the hand-eye…you know.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed. “Yes…yes, of course.” He took the hair tie from Crowley’s outstretched hand, warm fingers brushing his palm. The porch swing creaked as he stood up. Crowley knocked back the rest of his fifth glass of whiskey and tilted his head back, waiting.

“Mmm.”

Oh, those hands, those lovely warm hands. They carded through his hair with utmost gentleness, loosening every knot without ever having to tug or rip. Crowley’s mind, adrift in a haze of alcohol, began to imagine what it would be like to have Aziraphale do this every day. In the morning, maybe, before they left for class or work, Crowley still half asleep but not forgetting to reward him with a kiss when he was done. Or in the evening, after a shower. Preferably a shared one. Crowley hummed again and closed his eyes, glad that Aziraphale couldn’t see what was going on in his head.

“I’m going to do a rope braid,” he heard Aziraphale say, as though from far away. “Is that all right?”

“Hmm?” Crowley said, not opening his eyes. “Oh. Yeah, sure. Whatever y’want.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Okay.”

He parted Crowley’s hair into three and began to…twist? Crowley thought about asking him what that was for, but it was getting harder to form sentences. He waited until Aziraphale was finished, then reached back and felt the finished product. It really did feel just like a rope—a round, smooth spiral of hair. He sighed. _So talented._

“Thanks, an—‘Ziraphale.”

Aziraphale tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

“Of course, my dear.”

_My dear._ Crowley groaned, and something inside him tipped over an unseen edge. That was it. He could no longer stand to wait. He opened his eyes just in time to see Aziraphale sit down. Crowley could just barely make out his face in the dark--eyes, shining with reflected moonlight, the barest outline of nose and jaw, and the flash of a smile on a pretty mouth. 

Crowley smiled back.

Then he licked his lips, leaned forward…and kissed that beautiful, smiling mouth. 

\--

[1] Real person. That poor man. He’d been a regular for decades, so the whole staff knew him. Except they forgot to tell me about the whole cassette thing when I was still new, so when I got a call from him for the first time he assumed I knew he only did cassettes and I almost ordered ten CD audiobooks for him before someone caught the mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Description of the death of a grandparent (scene 3, skip paragraph that begins "When Crowley's...")  
> CW2: Description of life with an unstable, drug-addicted parent. (skip from "S'just me and..." to "guilt")  
> CW3: Description of childhood bullying, including some homophobia. (skip from "Aziraphale laughed sadly..." to "make them stop.")
> 
> If my CWs aren't cutting it, will someone please let me know? I'm trying really hard to balance giving CWs while also not giving spoilers and I'd love to know if it's not working for anyone. Anyway! Hope you like this chapter, and tell me what you think if you feel so inclined. I've been loving your comments!!!


	12. Aziraphale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so they kissed! And then what? 
> 
> (see endnotes for CW)

Aziraphale’s heart sang with joy as he kissed Crowley back. How many times had he imagined this, lying in bed alone? More times than he could count. The real thing blew all his fantasies out of the water. Crowley’s mouth, warm and yielding-firm, pressed gently against his, not pushing, not taking, just moving in half-time to the beat of Aziraphale’s pounding heart. Right when Aziraphale thought he might actually burst with happiness, Crowley paused for a moment, pulling a hair’s breadth away. Waiting.

But only for a moment. For once, Aziraphale didn’t hesitate. He chased Crowley’s mouth, and when their lips met again, he swore he could feel Crowley’s whole body relax. Crowley made a noise then, a sort of closed-mouth whimper. Aziraphale shivered, and an answering sound trembled in his own throat, low and wanting. He reached up tentatively to touch Crowley’s jaw, tracing the sharp line of it. Was this all right? Could he do this now, was it allowed?

 _Yes_ , Crowley’s body seemed to say. _Yes, it is_. At the first brush of his hand to that lean, rough cheek, Crowley drew in a sharp breath and leaned into his touch, one hand reaching up to press Aziraphale’s hand closer to his face, the other sliding around Aziraphale’s ribs to pull him in. Their legs pressed together, and one foot hooked around his ankle to press even closer. Aziraphale shuddered. The rush of new sensations was overwhelming.

He hummed against Crowley’s mouth. _Oh, Crowley. If you wanted this, why didn’t you do it before?_

 _That doesn’t matter, does it_ , he imagined Crowley would say, if either of them were willing to break apart long enough to speak. _We’re doing it now, and isn’t it incredible?_

 _Yes_ , Aziraphale thought. _Yes, it is_. This was fireworks and flowers blooming and a full-orchestra symphony, all at once. He wiggled closer, eliciting a squeeze from the arm that was still wrapped tightly around his chest, and reached up with his other hand to cup Crowley’s face. Crowley groaned, his lips parting, and when Aziraphale copied him his tongue slid forward to lick slowly into Aziraphale’s mouth. A hot, tingly something began to pool low in Aziraphale’s belly. He pressed against Crowley’s firm torso, one hand traveling down that gorgeous neck, wondering what it would be like to taste not just his mouth but the rest of him, too. His mouth was lovely, but it did taste rather strongly of, of…

of…

 _…whiskey_.

No.

No, no, no, _no_.

Aziraphale broke away. How could he continue to kiss Crowley for one second longer, knowing that Crowley was not, could not be in his right mind? He reached down, fumbling for the bottle he knew was sitting somewhere near Crowley’s feet. When he found it, he snatched it up and shook it, hoping desperately to hear the heavy swish of liquid inside.

It didn’t make a sound. Crowley had finished the whole bottle. Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat.

“What’cha doin’, angel?” Crowley said, sounding amused. He tried to pull Aziraphale back in, warm hands rubbing little circles into Aziraphale’s side. “C’mere. ’M not done with you yet.”

Aziraphale flinched. Angel? Was that someone else, someone Crowley had mistaken him for in his drunken state? This just kept getting worse and worse. He needed to leave, to get away before something even more terrible happened.

He pushed Crowley’s hands away and stood up. He wasn’t really drunk—he’d only been sipping occasionally at his wine for the last couple hours. His head was buzzing a little, but his balance was unimpaired.

“I’m going home.”

Crowley gasped and spluttered. “Wha—wait! Angel, what’s wrong?” He tried to stand, but he was so sloshed that he stumbled and almost fell over, catching himself just in time with the chain of the porch swing. It jerked wildly back and forth, nearly smacking Aziraphale in the leg. He dodged it and stepped back.

“You’re drunk, Crowley,” Aziraphale said with all the coldness he could muster. He turned his back on Crowley’s pathetic figure and grabbed his waistcoat off the back of the bench. “Go to bed. With any luck, you won’t remember this in the morning. I certainly hope I don’t.”

Crowley made a sharp, wounded noise, as though Aziraphale had struck him, and his breath started to grow loud and panicky. “Why would you—hold on, don’ walk home, just wait f’r me to sober up, n’I can—"

“I’ll call a cab,” Aziraphale said through gritted teeth. He patted the wall, looking for the door. It should be here, but where was the handle?

“All right, angel,” Crowley mumbled. “F’that’s what you want.”

“It is,” Aziraphale said tightly. His eyes began to prickle, and he blinked hard, still feeling for the door handle. There it was, finally. He turned it and yanked the door open.

“Goodbye, Crowley.”

Crowley’s breathing, already loud, got even louder. “Don’t…don’t you mean goodnight, angel?”

“No,” Aziraphale said, hating the shake in his voice. “I don’t. And that’s not my name.”

“An—Aziraphale, I’m—”

Aziraphale didn’t wait to hear the rest. He slammed the door behind him and stormed through the dark house, ripping the front door open and slamming it behind him as well. He didn’t actually intend to call a cab—he’d only said so to stop Crowley from following after him—but as he stalked down the dark pavement, he realized he’d better do it after all. Crowley’s house was on the complete opposite side of town from Tracy’s, and Aziraphale wanted to get into his room and his bed as soon as possible. He pulled out his phone and looked up the number for Tadfield’s only taxi with shaking fingers.

It wasn’t until he’d finished telling the sleepy driver where he was and hung up that he realized that he was still carrying his waistcoat under his arm. He shrugged it on and began to button it, his fingers knowing what to do without his having to look. One, two, three, four, five…where was the last one?

Oh. He’d skipped a hole at the top. Aziraphale’s eyes, already stinging and heavy, began to burn. He must look so stupid right now, standing on a street corner alone in the wee hours of the morning, his bow tie dangling around his neck and his waistcoat buttoned wrong. He ripped the bow tie off and stuffed it into his pocket, then set to work on the buttons. Five, four, three, two—

 _Pop_.

“No!”

Aziraphale’s hand flew out to catch the button, but it was too late. It was gone, probably already rolling down the pavement and into the gutter. There was no way he’d be able to find a tiny brown button in the dark before the taxi came.

He blinked hard again, but there was no fighting it any longer. The tears Aziraphale had been holding back spilled down his cheeks, and he began to sob.

\--

It was lucky, Aziraphale thought dully forty minutes later as he crept up the stairs to his room, that the only person who had to see him break down tonight was someone he was never going to see again. The taxi driver, a man so old he could have been Aziraphale’s great-grandfather, had been very kind—he’d immediately handed Aziraphale a box of tissues and asked him what was wrong, but Aziraphale had been so far gone by then that he could only sob hysterically into one tissue after another. The poor man was probably going to have to buy a new box after tonight.

He reached his room and opened the door as quietly as he could. Tracy seemed to be asleep, and Aziraphale wanted her to stay that way. The poor thing seemed to wake up at the slightest noise, and it was so hard for her to get back to sleep once she was awake. Hopefully he was done crying for the night. Waking her up with his silly tears would be doubly awful.

Well, not entirely silly. He had a right to be upset, didn’t he? Anyone would be, after one of their closest friends made a drunk pass at them and called them by someone else’s name. Aziraphale shut the door as quietly as he’d opened it and began tearing at the laces of his oxfords.

“ _Angel_ ,” he muttered viciously. “Who the heck is that?”

Whatever. It didn’t matter. Crowley wouldn’t need to remember his name anymore. Aziraphale had decided before he’d even left Crowley’s house that he wasn’t going to speak to, look at, or mention Crowley ever again. Aziraphale yanked off his shoes and tossed them away, then started on his shirt. The waistcoat was still hanging sadly open; he’d never managed to button it all the way back up once the top button had come off. He grimaced. What was he going to say to Gabriel?

His fingers froze on the last button of his shirt. Wait a minute. What was he going to say to Anathema? To Newt? If he was going to try and avoid Crowley, he couldn’t keep coming to their Saturday night dinners, and Newt and Anathema wouldn’t take that lying down. They’d want to know why, and Aziraphale had no intention of telling anyone about the events of tonight. Aziraphale’s breath began to come faster again. This was bad—very, very bad. He was going to have to let Newt and Anathema down without even giving them the courtesy of a reason why. And it was all Crowley’s fault.

“Why?” he whispered, stumbling towards the bed as the tears started to fall thick and fast again. “Out of all the beautiful people you could have had, why did you have to kiss me?”

He laid down on the bed. How stupid he’d been, believing Crowley wanted him. For a brief, shining moment, he’d forgotten that he was short and fat and odd, and apparently Crowley had, too. Perhaps, he thought as he wept into his pillow, he should have turned on the light back on before he left, so Crowley could have seen what he’d been kissing. That was his fault. If he hadn’t been so self-conscious about having his waistcoat off, he wouldn’t have turned off the light.

But his guilt extended beyond that. He’d flirted with Crowley, too, hadn’t he? After all those months of carefully hiding his crush. He’d jumped at the chance to braid that beautiful fiery hair, and he’d be lying to himself if he said he hadn’t melted into Crowley’s chest when Crowley had hugged him. Worst of all, he’d _kissed Crowley back_. Enthusiastically. If Crowley remembered this when he woke up…well, there would be no mistaking what Aziraphale had wanted, before he’d figured out that Crowley was too drunk to know what he was doing. Yet another reason never to talk to him again.

Never again.

Never.

Aziraphale curled up tight into a ball and choked out a huge, racking sob. This was awful. He was going to destroy the friendship between all four of them in one fell swoop. And just when Newt and Anathema had finally gotten together, too. No more watching them flirt and make eyes at each other, and no more catching Crowley’s eye as they laughed at their complete lack of subtlety. No more game nights, no more cooking together, no more long, meandering conversations that went on late into the night.

No more friends.

It was this last thought that broke his heart completely. Aziraphale had been friendless before, often for years at a time. He knew how to be alone. It was the only way he knew how to be, before Newt, Anathema, and Crowley had blazed into his dull existence. Now he’d tasted a whole different kind of life, and oh, how much it was going to hurt to lose it.

That was his last coherent thought. For the second time that night, Aziraphale dissolved into helpless sobs, huge heaving ones that went on and on. He tried again and again to get up so he could change out of his clothes and into his pyjamas, but all he had the energy to do was lie there and gasp for breath. Eventually, he gave up and closed his eyes, not really trying to sleep but not fighting it either.

Sobs became hiccups…hiccups became slow, steady breaths…then Aziraphale sighed and stilled completely, too tired to even dream.

\--

Aziraphale left the house only once the next day, to bring his waistcoat in to Gabriel for the replacing of the button. Luckily, Gabriel was busy with another customer and didn’t have time to stand around and chat. He would have noticed something was up eventually, and Aziraphale wasn’t interested in talking about it. Gabriel had been wonderfully helpful the last time Aziraphale had been at odds with Crowley, but there was no fixing this with a few words of sage advice. He avoided Tracy altogether; she would have known with just a look. The rest of the day was spent in bed, crying, sleeping, and letting all the same awful thoughts from the night before roll around in his head.

He still had classes, though, so he couldn’t lay around forever. He sat through his lectures on Monday without hearing a word, and walked mechanically to work for the half-shift he’d offered to cover before the events of Saturday night. He stood outside the door of the bookshop, sweating slightly in the heat and trying to compose his face into something resembling his normal demeanor. Newt was working today; he was bound to notice something was off if Aziraphale kept moping around. Besides, Newt would want to tell him about his date with Anathema, and Aziraphale didn’t want to pop Newt’s bubble with his own misery. Not yet.

When he’d finished gathering himself, he took a deep breath and pushed the front door open. The bookshop wasn’t packed tonight, but there were a fair few people milling around. He could see Adam, Pepper, Wensleydale, and Brian (or the Them, as they preferred to be called) up in the loft. They had made the bookshop a regular meeting place of late. Normally the sight of them made Aziraphale smile, but his smiles were in short supply today.

No coat today, not in this heat. Aziraphale headed straight for the till, where Newt was leaning on the counter and staring blissfully off into space. He pasted on his best imitation of a smile and waved a hand in front of Newt’s face to get his attention.

“Hello, Newt. I see you made it back in one piece.”

Newt started and whipped around, grinning as soon as he saw who it was. “Hey. Yeah.”

“It went just like you always pictured in your wildest dreams, then?”

“Well…not exactly, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

“Do I get any of the details?”

“Uh, well…I kissed her. We have before, but it was even better this time.”

That awful prickling feeling started in Aziraphale’s eyes again. _No, no, no! Not now._ He patted Newt on the back. “That’s wonderful, my dear.”

Newt shuffled and blushed. “And then Dick Turpin may have seen, um. A bit of action.”

Aziraphale laughed in spite of himself. It really was funny, the thought of the most unsexy car in the world serving as an impromptu hotel room. Newt laughed along with him.

“The two of you manage all right without us?” he said casually when their giggles had died away.

Aziraphale froze. “Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t we?”

Newt cocked his head. “I dunno. You said you were all right, and I asked Crowley, too, to make sure he would be. And he said the same thing. So I figured it would be all right. ‘Nathema was kind of on edge in the beginning, though.”

“…why?”

“She just said she had a bad feeling about it. That tarot reading she did for you a while back is still bugging her. Remember that? The one where she couldn’t figure out what it was supposed to mean?”

Aziraphale reminded himself to breathe. “Yes, I remember. At…at the chip shop.”

“Yeah, that. I told her that it could mean something that isn’t going to happen for years, so there wasn’t any point in worrying, and that got her to relax finally. And see, you’re both fine. Or at least I figure Crowley is, I haven’t seen him yet. He is fine, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said hoarsely. He cleared his throat. “Yes. He’s fine.” He looked at his watch and pasted his smile back on. “Look at the time! It’s about time you had a break, isn’t it?”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess,” Newt said, looking confused at the sudden change of subject. He pushed his glasses up his nose and stood up. “I’ll be off, then. She’s not here, but watch out; I think She might pop in later.”

“Oh, I will,” Aziraphale said through his false smile. “In the meantime, you go have a rest.”

“Right. See you in a bit.”

The second Newt was gone, Aziraphale pulled out the little folding stool and plopped down, his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. His head was spinning again, with confusion this time instead of shock and hurt. He hadn’t lied—he remembered every detail of Anathema’s seemingly-meaningless prediction. If it hadn’t been for what happened later that night with the old lady and his coat, he probably wouldn’t have bothered, but now it was burned into his brain. 

_A connection…a mistake…a decision_.

It had happened perfectly in that order, too. He’d failed to see why Crowley was so upset about inviting a stranger home, and because of that he’d made the mistake of assuming Crowley was being cold and unkind. Afterward, he’d had to make the decision to apologize to Crowley about it and fix things. Like dominoes, one thing tipping into the next. 

But that wasn’t the end of it, was it? There had been something else, too. Anathema had said there was two things, two events. Aziraphale couldn’t believe he was considering this, but was it all happening again? He rubbed his temples and squeezed his eyes shut, going over every detail of that fateful night in his head, trying to figure out what he had missed. Had Crowley—

“Mr. Fell.”

Aziraphale’s head snapped up. When he saw who was standing in front of him, he leapt out of his seat, his stomach twisting with dread. “Oh! I apologize, I had just sat down for a—”

The owner glared at him. “You are well aware that I do not pay you to sit around, Mr. Fell.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“If you value your position here, I suggest you not let me find you woolgathering again.”

Aziraphale clenched his jaw to stop it from trembling and blinked, hard. “Understood.”

The owner said nothing. She simply gave him one last glare and swept up to Her office. Aziraphale exhaled shakily and stared at the register for a long time, struggling to compose himself. He had never gotten on the owner’s bad side before. It would be just his luck right now to get fired on top of everything, and without the bookshop…what else would there be to make him happy anymore? He placed his palms down flat on the counter and closed his eyes.

 _Ding_.

It was the service bell. Aziraphale looked up, confused—he was standing right there.

Oh. It was the Them, standing all in a row like small, solemn soldiers. Aziraphale cleared his throat and tried to smile again.

“Can I help you, my dears?”

“No,” said Adam solemnly. He nodded to Pepper, who stepped forward as though she had been nominated spokesperson.

“You have given, and so shall you receive.” 

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry?” he said.

“That is all,” she said. “We wish you a good night.” She looked at Adam, and he nodded at her once, sharp and curt. Then the Them swept out of the shop without another word, not even talking amongst themselves.

Aziraphale gaped after them. His life, which had made perfect sense up until recently, seemed to have taken a turn for the completely nonsensical. He looked around the shop, wondering if Alice was going to come tumbling down one of the air vents in pursuit of the White Rabbit.

Nothing happened.

From just above his head, a throat cleared.

Aziraphale closed his mouth with a snap and turned on his heel. The children’s section could really use some rearranging. The fact that it was the one part of the shop the owner couldn’t see from Her office was just a coincidence. Really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Issues of consent involving alcohol. Skip the whole first scene if this bothers you; nothing progresses beyond kissing but everybody gets pretty upset. Crowley is very drunk and can't quite get his words out right and it doesn't go over well. 
> 
> Feel free to scream at me in the comments :)


	13. Crowley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reconciliation :)
> 
> (see endnotes for CW)

Crowley had not gone to bed after Aziraphale left. He’d woken up the next day curled up on the splintery bench of the porch swing, having finished off the wine and passed out in the throes of an anxiety attack. Despite the pounding pain in his head, he’d remembered the events of the night before instantly and immediately gone in search of a bottle of something alcoholic. He’d spent the rest of Sunday, and most of Monday and Tuesday, lying in bed, blasting Queen through his headphones and staying perpetually drunk. It was possibly the most miserable three days that Crowley had ever had, but what else could he do? Whenever the haze of vodka or whiskey or wine began to subside, the full weight of his idiocy crashed down on him like an avalanche, sending him spiraling back into abject panic. It was unbearable.

What the hell had he been thinking, kissing Aziraphale out of nowhere like that? No warning, no explanation, just “Hello, I’m going to stick my tongue down your throat now, hope you don’t mind.” It was completely logical for Aziraphale to assume that it was nothing more than a careless, drunken grope in the dark. And then, to top it all off, he’d slipped and started calling Aziraphale by what appeared to be someone else’s name. Crowley absolutely deserved the reaction he’d gotten and he knew it.

The thing that made it all much, much worse was the memory of how Aziraphale had reacted to the kiss, before he’d realized the state Crowley was in. Crowley played in his head over and over again the memory of those warm hands gently stroking his face and that soft mouth moving in time with his. He had a horrible feeling that if he’d been sober and asked nicely first, Aziraphale would have been happy to kiss him all night. Instead of whiskey, he could have gotten drunk on the feel of Aziraphale’s skin and those beautiful noises he made when kissed. That thought in particular—the thought that he could have had everything he’d been yearning for, soft and happy in his arms, if he hadn’t ruined his chances with his own stupidity—that thought made him wonder what the point was in ever being sober again.

Luckily for his liver, though, his booze stash petered out by Tuesday night. Crowley went to bed still buzzed, woke up at noon the next day with a splitting headache (chugging booze for three days straight will result in the mother of all hangovers; who knew?) and dragged himself off to the shower like a man going to the gallows. He’d showered twice since Saturday, but left the braid in for three days straight just to hold on to some scrap of proof that Aziraphale’s hands had been on him. Now it was loose and shredded around the edges, hair tie barely hanging on to the frayed tail. He stared at it in the mirror, willing himself to pluck it out.

_Come on. Just do it._

Crowley reached up and touched the hair tie. It slid a few more millimeters down, and he resisted the urge to push it back up.

_Oh, for God’s sake. This is pathetic._

Crowley turned his back on his reflection, gritted his teeth, and yanked the hair tie out. With a shake of his head, the braid unraveled into three loosely-twined coils. Crowley combed through them roughly with his fingers. He refused to look at himself in the mirror when he was done, but he could feel that his hair was now set in loose waves, cascading over his shoulders in a waterfall of red. It probably looked nice, and therefore he didn’t deserve to see it. He shucked off his clothes and stepped in the shower, soaking the curls into a sodden mass in seconds.

When he finished with his shower, he got dressed, combed his hair, and slouched into the kitchen for a glass of water. He used it to down a questionable amount of paracetamol, then grabbed his shoes and traipsed to the front door. Upon reaching it, he began the routine pat-down of his pockets and face. Wallet, keys, knife, sunglasses, all present. The sunglasses were definitely necessary today. He didn’t normally wear them at work—people found them off-putting, and the whinier customers complained—but today he needed all the armor he could get.

Today, he was going to have to face Anathema.

\--

The owner was at the shop when Crowley got in, arguing with a middle-aged lady about the worth of a huge stack of records sitting on the counter. It was a performance Crowley and Anathema had witnessed many times before. He—the owner—was a master at talking people into selling their old records to the store for much less than they were actually worth. When they finally gave in, he would then turn around and price them well above market value for re-sale in the shop. Crowley could never figure out why people didn’t just go online to buy the same thing for cheaper, but somehow the overpriced records flew off the racks anyway. He and Anathema could hardly sell them fast enough on busy days.

Twenty minutes later, the poor woman gave up and accepted the owner’s rock-bottom offer. As soon as she was gone, the owner pulled out a notepad and got to work scribbling down a new set of prices for the inventory, humming as he worked. When he finished, he flashed Crowley and Anathema one last winning smile and strolled out, leaving them to price and put out the teetering pile. It was normally a nice way to pass an afternoon, but today…not so much. Too much opportunity for talking. Or interrogation.

“You price, I shelve?” he asked Anathema, who was looking at him with uncomfortable questions in her eyes. He pushed his sunglasses further up his nose.

She gave him an unreadable look, then squatted down to dig the price gun out of an overcrowded bottom drawer. “All right.”

“Sorry for not answering your messages,” he said when she straightened up and picked up the list of scribbled prices.

Anathema peered over her glasses at him sternly. “Any particular reason why you’ve been ignoring me for four days straight?”

Crowley squirmed. There was no point in denying it; there were at least twelve unread texts from her on his phone at that very moment. He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked away.

“Knew you’d want to know how Saturday went,” he mumbled, praying she’d assume he’d chickened out again and leave him alone.

It worked. Anathema sighed, turning back to the list. “You could have just said that.”

“Yeah, I should have. Sorry again. Anyway, tell me about the concert.”

Anathema perked up. “It was great! They were just as good live as I hoped. I don’t think Newt really knew what to make of them at first, but by the end he was screaming along with everyone else. I never would have thought he could let loose like that.”

Despite still feeling like complete shit, Crowley laughed. “I wouldn’t have either. And after?”

Anathema looked surreptitiously around the shop. It was almost empty, except for a single old man poking around the classical section in the opposite corner. She nodded and turned back to Crowley.

“We banged in his car.”

Crowley, who had been just about to take a drink of the water bottle he’d bought from the corner store on the way in, lowered it and goggled at her.

“You—how?”

“Well, when a man and a woman lust each other very much…”

Crowley poked her with two fingers in her glasses. She yelped and swatted him away. “You know what I mean. In that tiny-ass car. How?”

“It wasn’t easy,” Anathema admitted, taking her glasses off to wipe away the fingerprints. “But we managed. It was good, too.”

“Was he a marvelous specimen of a man?” Crowley drawled, smirking and lifting up the bottle of water once more.

Anathema waited for him to start drinking before answering. “If you’re asking whether he has a huge dick, the answer is yes.”

“Gahk—hurk—pth. Ah. Guh. Hhhh.”

“Or were you wondering whether he’s good with his tongue? Because—”

“Okay,” Crowley said loudly over her, wiping at his streaming eyes underneath the sunglasses. “Point made. You had a good time. So are you officially together, then?”

“Yes,” Anathema said proudly. “We are.”

A stab of pain shot through Crowley’s heart at the sight of her joyful face, but he smiled through it. “Good.”

Anathema continued to beam back for a moment, then seemed to remember herself and turned back to the records. She priced a few in quick succession, and Crowley snatched them out from under her to go put them away. It gave him the moment he needed to collect himself. He’d guessed that Newt and Anathema’s date would end in fireworks, but he hadn’t been prepared for the gut-punch of envy and loss that had hit him upon seeing her so happy. _Keep a lid on it,_ he told himself sternly. Anathema deserved to be happy, and he wasn’t about to rain on her parade with his own fuckup if he could help it.

When he returned to the counter to grab more records, Anathema was texting furiously. Crowley was about to make a joke about sexting at work when he noticed that she looked dead serious, worried even. He grabbed the three records she’d priced in his absence and was about to slink away when she looked up and fixed him with a narrow-eyed stare.

“Tell me what happened on Saturday.”

Crowley froze like a sighted deer. “I told you, I don’t want to—”

Anathema’s mouth tightened. “Something happened, didn’t it?”

“What makes you say that?” Crowley mumbled. His heart rate, already faster than normal, began to pound in his ears.

“Aziraphale’s not coming to dinner on Saturday,” Anathema said baldly. “Newt’s been messaging me. He says Aziraphale’s been avoiding him and acting weird since Monday. He refuses to talk about it, and he won’t give a reason why he can’t come out with us. I can’t make you tell me if something happened, but you’d better not lie.”

Crowley said nothing. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk—he seemed to have forgotten how. His breath was coming in short gasps again, and the ground was tilting beneath his feet. He shoved the records back onto the counter, knocking the stack Anathema had been pricing towards her, and sank down onto the floor.

“Crowley! Crowley, what’s wrong?”

“I,” Crowley gasped. “I—”

“Young man, are you all right?” the old man called from across the store. “Do I need to call an ambulance?”

Crowley shook his head vigorously. No, he didn’t need an ambulance. He needed to find a way to fix this. Never, in all his wildest nightmares, had he thought that Aziraphale would cut not only him but also Newt and Anathema out of his life. Crowley had been prepared to be given the cold shoulder the next time he saw Aziraphale, and perhaps even to quietly drop out of their little group of friends himself in order to give Aziraphale his space. This…this sounded like Aziraphale was going to torch everything they’d built over the last few months and leave it all behind in a burning heap.

_He’s not even going to give me a chance to apologize. I’m fucked. I’m fucked, I’m fucked, I’m fucked, I’m fucked…_

As though from far away, Crowley could hear Anathema reassuring the old man that he would be fine and pleading with him to please not call 999. Somewhere in the maelstrom of panic, Crowley felt a stab of guilt for being so dramatic and making anyone worry for no reason, but his heart and lungs were not responding to his attempts to slow his gasps for breath and racing pulse. He wrapped his arms around his legs, put his head between his knees, and stared at the floor, counting the flecks in the pattern on the tile in a desperate attempt to get his mind to think about something, anything else.

_Fifteen…sixteen…no, already counted that one…sixteen…seventeen…_

Around the thirty-five mark, Crowley heard the bell chime above the door. A minute later, he felt a presence kneel by his side. He didn’t look up, but he hoped it was Anathema and not a random stranger.

“Hey. Crowley. Can you look at me?”

Anathema. Good. Still, Crowley didn’t look up. The roaring panic was being steadily replaced by a hot, thick shame that coiled in his stomach like a snake, and it hissed at the idea of meeting anyone’s eye who had to see him like this. He pushed his sunglasses hard into the bridge of his nose and shook his head.

“Okay. Do you need any help, or would you rather I leave you alone for a while? You could hang out in the back; I’ll come get you if something comes up.”

Crowley nodded. He rocked forward and stood up, looking at the floor the whole time, then shoved his hands back into his pockets and slouched off to the tiny back room. Though he could feel Anathema’s eyes on him the whole way, she said nothing until he was almost out of sight, his hand on the worn brass handle.

“Don’t worry about my reaction, okay? About whatever it is. I know I can’t stop you from worrying altogether, but you can at least put your mind to rest about me being mad. All right?”

Crowley’s shoulders tightened. Easy for her to say, in the dark as she was. It was nice of her to say so, though. He sighed and turned the knob.

“All right.”

\--

It took about half an hour for Crowley to calm down enough to feel normal again, and another ten minutes to force himself to go out and face the music. The deciding factor was the guilt of leaving Anathema alone to both man the register and do all the pricing and organizing. He swept out in a rush of stuffy air and slipped behind the counter just in time to take a question from a customer who was bugging Anathema for a particular record while she was trying to ring someone else up. When everything had their various wants seen to and they were alone again, Crowley steeled himself and turned to face her.

“Are you ready?”

The space between Anathema’s eyebrows pinched in a frown. “You don’t have to do it right this second.”

“No, I want to get it over with,” Crowley muttered. “We went to dinner, and afterwards we went over to mine. You know, to the garden…”

As the story unfolded, Anathema’s frown dissolved, her eyes getting wider and wider and her mouth dropping into a horrified _O_. When he finished, she leaned heavily against the counter and groaned.

“Did you skip all your classes on Monday and Tuesday so you could stay drunk? My God. No wonder you’re wearing your sunglasses today. Your eyes are probably pure red.”

Crowley rubbed the back of his neck. “No, I…still went. Took the bus and brought a water bottle full of vodka.”

Anathema snorted.

“You don’t need to tell me I’m a fucking idiot,” he said before she could say anything else. “I already know.”

“I won’t, then,” Anathema said, rubbing at her face with both hands. “Well, shit. No wonder he’s avoiding you. But you said he kissed you back?”

“Yeah,” Crowley mumbled. His stomach did its usual funny twist at the memory.

Anathema let a long breath hiss out her nose. Her eyebrows were back in their thoughtful pinch. Crowley waited patiently. Whatever she had to say couldn’t be any worse than all the things he’d been saying to himself for the past few days.

“I think,” she said at long last, “that you can fix this.”

Crowley blinked. Not that she could see it with the sunglasses on, but she seemed to recognize his surprise anyway and plowed on.

“Really. I think you can. You’ll have to do a lot of groveling, but I have a feeling that you’re willing to do that if there’s a chance of getting him back. Am I wrong?”

“No,” Crowley said through the hangnail he was in the process of biting off. “You’re not.”

Anathema nodded once. “Good. Want to hear my idea?”

Crowley considered this. After the monumental failure of his plan to win Aziraphale the first time, it seemed obvious that he was shit at this kind of thing and needed all the help he could get. He shrugged and gave her a wry smile.

“Yeah. Why the hell not.”

\--

Crowley couldn’t follow Anathema’s idea to the letter—it was partly predicated on his having Aziraphale’s phone number, and of course he still didn’t. They could have asked Newt for it, but Crowley rejected that idea out of hand. It would have required lying, or at least not telling the whole truth, and it seemed like an invasion of Aziraphale’s privacy to get it without his permission. Crowley would have to manage without. The plan would still work without it, it was just…more terrifying. A _lot_ more terrifying.

But Crowley was done letting his fear control him. So, on Friday morning, just as he and Anathema had planned, Crowley showered, shaved, tied his hair up into a nicer bun than usual, put on a long-sleeved black button-down (the only good shirt he owned—he thought of it as his interview-and-funeral shirt) and wriggled into his nicest pair of black jeans. When he was done staring at himself in the mirror, he grabbed his wallet, sunglasses, and keys and strode out to his car. The knife, for once, could stay at home. He jammed the key in the ancient lock and then the ignition, and he was off.

The first stop was at the florist. Crowley didn’t bother looking at the displays; he knew he’d only get bogged down trying to pick the best one. Instead, he went straight to the counter and asked if they had anything that meant “apology and also I really like you.” Surprisingly, they did. It was big and colorful and probably expensive. Crowley bought it without looking at the price.

The next, and last, stop was Aziraphale’s house. Crowley drove under the speed limit the entire way there, but he didn’t turn around, or stop and vomit, both of which were attractive options in their own right. When he reached the house, he did the most perfect parallel parking job he’d ever done in his life and…

…stayed in the car. Staring at the steering wheel. When he got his courage up again, Crowley glanced furtively at the little house. Aziraphale was in there. He had to be. Newt had told Anathema that he’d started going straight home after work and classes, and Aziraphale had all his classes in the morning on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday to free up the second half of the day for work.

His phone buzzed. Crowley grabbed it off the opposite seat, ready to seize any opportunity to procrastinate a little longer.

Anathema: Have you left yet?

Crowley: I’m there now

Anathema: Oh ok I’ll leave you alone

Anathema: You can do it!

Anathema: Text me after, ok?

Crowley: Okay

Crowley: Thanks 🙂

Anathema: 😉 💪 👍 💐 ❤️

Crowley snorted. The heart was ridiculously optimistic, but there was no point in arguing with her about it. He locked his phone and shoved it in his trouser pocket (with difficulty, they were quite tight) and plucked off his sunglasses. No hiding today. Then he picked up the flowers, took a deep breath, and placed his hand on the worn metal door handle.

_One…two…three._

The door popped open with its usual creak, and out Crowley stepped. He slammed the door behind him, strode up the front walk, and pressed the doorbell. It seemed to make no sound—broken? Crowley was just debating whether to knock as well when the door flew open to reveal someone who was most definitely not Aziraphale.

“Um—”

“Oh, hel _lo_!” the opener of the door said. She—a bottle-blonde lady in a housecoat who Crowley figured must be Aziraphale’s landlady—shot him a beaming smile and backed up, throwing the door wide open and beckoning him in like a long-lost relative.

“Come in, dear! Don’t be shy!”

Crowley didn’t move. Alarms were blaring in his head—they hadn’t thought up a contingency plan in case it wasn’t Aziraphale who answered the door. What could he do?

“Um,” he said again. “Don’t you want to know who I am first?”

Aziraphale’s landlady (Tracy? That was her name, wasn’t it?) stopped waving him in and put her free hand on her hip.

“You’re Crowley, aren’t you?”

Crowley gaped. “How—yeah, but—"

“And are those for Aziraphale?”

“…yes, but—”

“Then come _in_ , dear,” Tracy said impatiently. “You can wait downstairs, and I’ll go get him for you.” She flapped her hand at him again, more insistently this time.

Crowley clutched the flowers tighter and tried to keep his breathing under control. “Uh. I, ah. Thank you, but. I would…rather he invite me in. He might not, um. Want me here, so I, I…”

Tracy pursed her lips and fixed him with a searching stare. Crowley sweated under the heat of it, but refused to break. He was frantically trying to think of a way to explain his presence that didn’t make him sound like a massive arsehole when, to his great relief, she shrugged and dropped her stern gaze.

“All right. You stay here, then. I’ll be right back.”

Crowley expected her to close the door, but she didn’t. Instead, she opened it as wide as it could go, put the doorstop in place, and gave him an encouraging smile before turning to go upstairs. Crowley would have liked to smile back, but all he could manage was a half-twitch of his lips. He watched Tracy’s slippers march determinedly up the stairs until they were gone, then listened hard for any hint of voices from upstairs.

None came.

Minutes passed. Was that the sound of a door opening? It must be. Oh—there it was again. Crowley risked a forward lean to see if anyone was coming downstairs. Still no one. Crowley shuffled on the spot and began biting at the skin around the nail of his little finger. It didn’t have any hangnails at the moment, but all it took to change that was a few well-placed bites. He knew if he didn’t watch out he’d end up with a bloody finger, but what else was there to do while he waited? It wouldn’t do to be looking at his phone when Aziraphale came down. _If_ he came down. Crowley bit down harder.

Five more agonizing minutes passed. Was Aziraphale in bed? Or was she trying to talk him into coming downstairs? He pulled his phone out of his pocket just far enough to see the time. He’d give it at least another five minutes. No, who was he kidding? He’d give it five hours if he had to. Crowley bit his finger again and checked on the flowers. They looked all right, but they were going to need water soon. Provided Aziraphale didn’t decide to stomp on them and throw them away. Crowley shuddered. No, Aziraphale wouldn’t do that. 

The stairs creaked. Crowley whipped his head up so fast he cricked his neck.

“Ah! Fuck. Ow.”

“Oh good, you’re still here,” Tracy said as she swept down the stairs. She was dressed to go out now, in a loud floral print dress and an assortment of bangles, and a large leather handbag hung off her shoulder. When she reached the bottom, she stopped in front of Crowley and gave him a roguish wink.

“Well, dear, I’m off to get my hair done!” she said, so loudly that Crowley had to step back a little.

“Tracy,” said Aziraphale’s voice from upstairs.

Tracy grinned, undeterred. “I might be a while,” she shouted. “Don’t wait up.”

“ _Tracy_.”

Tracy didn’t even look back. She just threw Crowley one last beaming smile and sashayed on by, bangles jingling cheerily. In any other circumstances, Crowley would have laughed, but all he could think about in this moment was that Aziraphale was so very near. He rubbed his neck and resisted the urge to peer up the stairs again, hoping he didn’t look as sweaty and red as he felt.

For nearly a whole minute, the house was silent.

Then the stairs creaked. Crowley held his breath.

Another creak. Then another. Crowley heard a sigh, then Aziraphale came the rest of the way down, stopping on the bottom step. They looked each other up and down, Aziraphale’s eyes widening at the sight of the huge bouquet. Aziraphale was dressed casually, for him anyway. Sock feet, no bowtie, no waistcoat, just a blue button-down and khaki trousers. Hair a curly blonde cloud, a little flattened on one side to match the pillow lines on his cheek. He was somehow even more adorable than usual, and Crowley ached to touch him.

“Hi,” he mumbled. “Can I, um. Can I come in?”

Aziraphale looked at him. His mouth twitched, and Crowley knew suddenly that there was no way he wasn’t going to make Aziraphale cry one way or another.

“These are for you,” he said, holding up the flowers. “Wanted to apologize. And…explain some things. If you’re willing to hear me.”

Another long searching look, followed by a nod. Aziraphale went down the last step and turned the corner, obviously expecting Crowley to follow. Which he did, after hastily kicking the doorstop out of the way and shutting the door behind him. The hallway was covered in floral-print wallpaper not dissimilar to the dress Tracy had been wearing on her way out, and the furniture in the sitting room was just the same. Crowley settled himself on a pink-and-green sofa near the window, and Aziraphale sat down on an even more garish purple chair. He folded his hands across his belly, looked at Crowley, and waited.

Crowley looked down into the flowers, which he was holding like a shield in front of his chest.

_Right. Okay. Just gotta…yeah._

“So. I…well, I have a lot of things I want to apologize for, but I’ll start with not asking you first before making a move on you. Sorry for that. Also for bringing you over to my place without telling you why. And for getting pissed before I did it, definitely sorry for that.”

No response. Crowley didn’t dare look up. He cleared his throat and forged ahead.

“I’ve been wanting to do…what I did on Saturday night for almost a year now. I just couldn’t get up the nerve to do it. So I decided I needed a bit of, you know, liquid courage.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” Aziraphale said, breaking his silence finally. “We haven’t known each other for that long. It’s only been five months since I first met you.”

Crowley’s heart briefly stopped beating. _Shit_. He hadn’t meant to give himself away like that, not today. He hung his head even further.

“Uh. That’s…um. See, I…I used to see you. On my way in to work. Went in a couple times to try and talk to you, but all I ever did was buy mugs and shit. Did it for months. Probably still would be if Anathema hadn’t figured me out and…well, you can probably guess how that went.”

Aziraphale made a soft little _ah_ of realization. “You did! I remember now. You bought all sorts of things, and I thought you were terrifying because you never chatted with me or smiled or anything.”

Crowley cringed. “Fantastic. The exact opposite of what I wanted.”

“I see.”

Silence reigned again. Crowley’s nerve, already shaky, finally gave out. He stared at the flowers, trying to think of something to say that wouldn’t make him look like even more of an idiot. Or maybe he should just leave.

Then a noise came from across the room—a loud creak as Aziraphale got out of his chair. Crowley looked up in astonishment as he approached. _Is he going to kiss me? Or slap me?_

When Aziraphale reached him, he held out his hands. Crowley stared at them. _Does he want me to hold them, or…_

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “May I have those? I think Tracy’s got a vase in the kitchen somewhere that’ll fit them.”

Oh, right. The flowers. Crowley handed him the bouquet, and he disappeared into the next room with it. A few clunks and the sound of running water later, Aziraphale reappeared with the flowers in a large porcelain vase, which he carefully set on a doily-covered end table. When he’d placed the vase just right, he stepped back to admire the effect, hands behind his back and a small smile curling the ends of his pretty mouth. The ache that Crowley had felt upon first seeing him came back with a vengeance.

“They’re beautiful, my dear,” Aziraphale said quietly, still looking at the flowers. “Thank you.”

 _My dear_. Crowley’s heart leapt in his chest. He knew that he should respond, but all he could do was stare at Aziraphale like he was dying of thirst and Aziraphale was an oasis in the distance. His heart beat even harder when Aziraphale walked over to his sofa and sat down on the next cushion over. Soft thighs spread out when he sat, stopping a few inches short of touching Crowley’s leg. Crowley threw them a yearning glance, remembering what they felt like and _wanting_.

“I forgive you, my dear,” Aziraphale said, deadly serious. “And I’m sorry myself, for assuming the worst about you, especially when I said I wouldn’t do it again. I really do mean it this time when I say that I’ll always assume the best from now on.”

He held out his hand again, and this time Crowley was almost sure of what he wanted. He mirrored the gesture, letting a trembling hand hover over Aziraphale’s smaller, softer one, hoping Aziraphale would reach up those scant millimeters and close the gap.

Aziraphale looked at it and sighed. A happy sigh, Crowley thought. Then those warm fingers were twining through his, and oh, didn’t it feel wonderful. Crowley’s stomach and heart did a tango straight into his throat. He looked up into Aziraphale’s smiling face, wanting to say something, but his tongue was still tied. All he could manage was a squeeze of Aziraphale’s hand, hoping that would tell Aziraphale all he needed to know. It seemed to—Aziraphale fairly beamed at him, then squeezed back and wiggled just a little bit closer.

“Are we all right again, my dear?” he said, as if the world wasn’t being born anew that very minute. “I think we are, but I’d like to hear you say it anyway.”

“Yeah,” Crowley choked out. “Yeah, we are.”

“Oh, good,” Aziraphale said, covering Crowley’s hand with his other hand and squeezing it with both of them this time. “Now, would you mind telling me the whole story? From the beginning this time.”

Crowley nodded and took in a deep, slow breath. 

“Right. From the beginning...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW1: Description of excessive alcohol consumption as a coping mechanism. Skip to "Come on. Just do it." near the end of the first scene, also "Did you skip all your classes..." to "Anathema snorted" in the third scene.  
> CW2: Description of a panic attack. Skip from "Crowley said nothing" to the end of the scene. 
> 
> Hi guys! Sorry I took so much longer than usual on this one. I wish I had a good excuse as to why, but the honest answer is that this chapter has been absolutely kicking my ass for some reason. I should be able to go back to my usual twice-weekly posting schedule now, I think.


	14. Aziraphale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Telling the truth. 
> 
> (see endnotes for CW)

Aziraphale’s mouth slowly dropped further and further open as Crowley told his story. It was already fantastical that Crowley had thought him attractive at first sight, looking like he did, but the idea of Crowley nursing a crush for months before they even spoke to one another was almost ridiculous. His jaw fell even further when Crowley confessed that “Angel” was not the name of a former partner but the nickname Crowley had given _him_ , before they’d officially met and learned each other’s names, and it stayed that way through Crowley’s descriptions of all his failed attempts at flirting. The pool game, the night on the hill, and many other instances besides were thrown into the bright light of understanding. The scale of all the signals he’d missed made Aziraphale’s head swim, and he shook it in wonder. _All this hiding and dancing around for nothing…_

“Something wrong?”

Aziraphale looked up. Crowley had trailed off mid-sentence, his eyes darting over Aziraphale’s incredulous expression. The look of naked fear he’d been wearing when Aziraphale had first come down the stairs was creeping back over his face. Aziraphale immediately straightened and shut his mouth with a snap.

“Oh, no. Nothing’s wrong, my dear,” he said hastily, rubbing the edge of Crowley’s hand with his thumb and pulling it further onto his lap. “Do go on. You were telling me about how you and Anathema planned all this,” he waved a hand at the flowers and Crowley’s outfit, “together?”

Crowley stole a look at their joined hands, and the anxious expression turned into a little smile. He nodded. “Yeah. S’been driving her batty, me taking so long to bring it out into the open. Told her I’d keep her involvement a secret if she wanted, but she said it was all right to tell you in case you didn’t believe me. She says you can call her up and get the whole story from her side, too. If you want.”

“I may,” Aziraphale murmured. His head was spinning again. “Some other time. Not now. It’s not that I don’t believe you, I just…it seems too incredible to be real.”

“Incredible that I’m such an awkward sod, or incredible that I like you?” Crowley said, his smile growing wider. He tilted one long leg so that a black-trousered knee rested against Aziraphale’s tan one. Aziraphale, who was feeling hotter under the collar every minute, looked away.

“The second, I suppose,” he said even more quietly. “And that you’ve felt this way for so long. As…as I have.”

“Have you?” Crowley murmured. “I wasn’t sure. You hid it so well.” He covered Aziraphale’s hand with his other one and pressed it between them.

“Yes,” Aziraphale whispered. “I have.” He knew it was silly to still be so shy, after all of Crowley’s confessions of long-held affection, but he still couldn’t bring himself to look Crowley in the eye as he said it. He stared hard at a flower in the dusty old carpet and swallowed hard.

The next moment, though, he did look up, because Crowley was pulling his hands away. His mouth opened in shock and hurt, but Crowley was smiling and spreading his arms wide.

“Come here, angel. If you want, that is.”

Aziraphale didn’t need to be told twice. He threw his arms around Crowley and pulled him in until there was no more space between them. Crowley laughed and wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders, his sharp jaw coming to rest atop Aziraphale’s head. Aziraphale squeezed him around his slim waist and closed his eyes, only to immediately open them again. It wouldn’t do to miss any aspect of this moment. Not a single sense should be missed—not the sight of Crowley’s collarbone peeking slightly out of his shirt, not the familiar spicy scent of his aftershave, and definitely not the firm warm feeling of his body pressed against Aziraphale’s side. Aziraphale made a sound that was somewhere between a deeply contented hum and a sigh and snuggled closer into Crowley’s chest.

“Want to tell your side?” Crowley said into Aziraphale’s hair. He’d tilted his head down, and now his mouth and sharp nose were running through the messy curls in slow, lazy circles. “That’s about it for mine. You know all my secrets now.”

Aziraphale shivered. “Mmm. Not…not much to tell. I thought you were attractive from the first, but I thought there was no way I would be your type, so I sat on it as best I could. It got much harder once I got to know you; I liked you more and more all the time and I’m sure I got worse at hiding it. None of you ever said anything, though, so I figured I was safe. Although, in retrospect, Tracy does seem to have put two and two together.”

Crowley chuckled, his breath a cool puff on the top of Aziraphale’s head. “You could say that. And what do you mean, not my type? I like bow ties.”

Aziraphale snorted, making Crowley laugh again. He stopped his circling and pressed his face into Aziraphale’s hair. His mouth brushed Aziraphale’s scalp, but he froze seconds before the graze of lips became a kiss and pulled away.

“Can I, um. Can I kiss you? Just right here?”

“Of course, my dear,” Aziraphale said breathlessly. A strange feeling was pulsing through his veins, burning away all the shyness and leaving a new and not unwelcome bravery behind. “But why stop there?”

Crowley, who had pressed his lips to the top of Aziraphale’s head the moment Aziraphale had given him permission, stilled completely. Aziraphale couldn’t even feel a breath go in and out of that slender chest. He pulled away just far enough for them to look each other in the face, and one cool hand traveled from Aziraphale’s shoulder to his cheek, cupping it with such gentleness that Aziraphale would have cried if he hadn’t been so happy.

He closed his eyes…let his lips part…leaned forward…

…and then Crowley’s mouth was on his, warm and soft and wonderful. Aziraphale sipped kisses from it, one after another, Crowley mirroring every movement. The faintest of sighs escaped out Crowley’s mouth in between kisses, his breath smelling deliciously of mint. Aziraphale squeezed him and pulled away in order to look into his eyes. They were always lovely, but never more so than today. A thin ring of gold glowed in the bright daylight around blown pupils, which surely hadn’t been so big a moment ago. Aziraphale smiled.

“Again?”

Crowley swallowed hard and nodded. “Again.”

\--

Aziraphale didn’t know for how long they sat there, kissing and holding each other, and he didn’t really care. He had nowhere to be, but even if he had he would have gladly skipped whatever it was in order to stay here on this sofa and keep his hands and mouth right where they were. Crowley, too, seemed to be in no hurry to go. Their kisses, which had started out so soft and sweet, had slowly changed into something feverish and hungry, and both their hands had begun to roam away from safe places like shoulders and faces to chests and thighs. While Aziraphale was very much enthusiastic about this development, he retained a vague awareness that Tracy would, at some point, be returning, and she probably wouldn’t want to walk in on them getting handsy with each other in her sitting room. Probably.

So, with great reluctance, he pulled himself out of a lovely kiss involving a lot of tongue and some very interesting noises coming from deep inside Crowley’s chest, and attempted to compose himself.

“Hold on a moment,” he said, gulping down a hurried breath. “We ought, to, I don’t know. Move or something. Or continue this another day. I’d rather Tracy not come home to a show.”

Crowley let out a single snort of laughter. Then he seemed to comprehend the rest of what Aziraphale had said, and his face grew serious. “Um. Which would you rather? I could go if you want, or…” He glanced at the door, and his already flushed face got even redder.

_He would go to my room if I asked him_ , Aziraphale realized. _I could take him upstairs right now, and kiss him on my bed._ But before he could delve into all the intriguing possibilities of that scenario, he remembered what his bedroom currently looked like and stopped short.

“Do you want me to go?” Crowley said, noticing his look of consternation. “This has been great; we don’t have to—”

“It’s not that,” Aziraphale mumbled. “I’d like to take you up, actually. To my, my room. But I wasn’t exactly expecting a visitor, so…”

“…it’s a complete tip?” Crowley finished for him, grinning. “S’okay, I don’t care.” He put his hand on Aziraphale’s thigh and stroked a thumb along the inside.

“I do,” Aziraphale said firmly. He definitely didn’t want Crowley to see the bin overflowing with tissues from crying all week, or the pile of clothes he’d been too depressed to fold when he’d finally got around to doing his laundry. He stood up. “Do you mind waiting outside while I tidy up a bit? Won’t take long.”

Crowley sprang up next to him, still smiling, and grabbed his hand. “Sure. Already waited ten months; what’s another ten minutes?”

Aziraphale smiled back, his stomach doing a pleasurable little fluttery thing. He led Crowley out of the sitting room, up the stairs, and down the hall, anticipation buzzing in his veins. Upon reaching his bedroom door, he posted Crowley outside, gave him one last kiss, and opened the door just enough to slip through and close it behind him. Once inside, he set to work on the mess with the energy of a man possessed. It would have been easier to ball the clothes up and stuff the whole wad in the closet, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it even with an extremely handsome man waiting to come in and kiss him. He hung up all the shirts, folded every pair of trousers the correct way before putting them away, and made sure to match all his socks before stuffing them in their drawer. When at last he was done, he stomped down the huge pile of tissues in the bin and yanked the crumpled sheets and duvet up to the head of the bed. They were crooked and looked ridiculous, but they would have to do.

“Are you almost done?” said Crowley’s muffled voice from outside. “You don’t have to iron the curtains and polish the doorknob, I don’t—wha!”

“All finished,” Aziraphale said, closing the door behind them and delighting in the flustered expression Crowley was developing from being yanked unexpectedly inside. The look only got more pronounced when Aziraphale backed him up against the door and stood on tiptoes to kiss him. It was meant to be a chaste kiss to start, but didn’t stay that way for longer than a few seconds. Crowley’s hands slid all over Aziraphale’s back and shoulders, grasping, squeezing, and Aziraphale made a noise he didn’t think he’d ever made before when one of those hands made its way into his hair and _pulled_. He was pretty sure Crowley had only wanted to tip his head back in order to kiss him better, but suddenly Aziraphale found himself pressing the whole length of his body against him, straining upward with all his might.

“Mmm—hey,” Crowley said, pulling away. “This is fantastic, but, uh…how about the bed? We don’t have to—it’d just be, you know, easier—"

“Sure,” Aziraphale replied, panting. He tried to turn around and walk away, but Crowley didn’t let go. Instead, he squeezed Aziraphale tighter and walked him backwards, laughing when they nearly tripped over their own tangled feet. The rush of raw emotion that Aziraphale felt upon hearing that laugh and seeing Crowley’s joyful expression was so intense that he almost gasped at the gut-punch strength of it. It was so strong, in fact, that he almost didn’t notice that Crowley was sitting down on the bed, turning him around, pulling him in…

“No!”

Crowley whipped his hands away as though he’d been burned. Aziraphale winced. He’d only meant to stop Crowley from pulling him onto his lap, not to scare him away altogether. Obviously Crowley could see he wasn’t thin, but he probably had no idea how much Aziraphale actually weighed, and Aziraphale was not in the least keen on him finding out. He slipped his smile back on and sat down next to Crowley on the bed, reaching out for him once more.

“Come here, darling. Easier to kiss you this way.”

“Okay,” Crowley said slowly. He looked confused and anxious again, but he allowed Aziraphale to pull him in and kiss the nerves away. Slowly, without Aziraphale even realizing it at first, they leaned back until they were lying side-by-side on the bed, their feet still on the floor. Crowley, who was now relaxed and pliant once more, wriggled closer until their torsos were pressed together and started to pepper kisses all over Aziraphale’s face and neck. When Crowley accidentally hit a ticklish spot just under his jaw, Aziraphale giggled and squashed Crowley’s face in between his head and shoulder on instinct, which only made Crowley dig in harder.

“Stop it, you fiend,” Aziraphale gasped, pushing him away. Crowley grinned and wiggled right back in. He was about to resume kissing Aziraphale’s face when Aziraphale, who was feeling brave again, held him back.

“Why don’t you take off your shoes, my dear?”

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up, but he covered his surprise a moment later with a smirk. “What, you don’t want my dirty shoes on your bed?”

“No, I don’t think I do,” Aziraphale said serenely. “Off, please.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

When Crowley bent over to slip off his shoes, Aziraphale made his move. He swung his legs up onto the bed, scooted back until his head was resting on the nearest pillow, and waited. When Crowley looked up again, he reached his arms out and smiled.

“Come here, darling.”

Crowley’s eyes darted over him, hesitant. Then he stood up, walked over to the pillow where Aziraphale’s head lay, and leaned down until they were close enough to kiss again. Aziraphale let his arms drop, confused.

“What are you—”

“I just don’t want to misunderstand what you want,” Crowley whispered, nuzzling Aziraphale’s round nose with his long one. “Do you want me on top?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said impatiently, reaching up again to grab him. This time, he got what he wanted. Crowley wasted no time in clambering up onto the bed and settling his body on top of Aziraphale’s. To say it felt wonderful would have been an understatement—Aziraphale’s every nerve felt like a live wire, and that was _before_ Crowley began to kiss him again, slow, open-mouthed and full of intention. Aziraphale’s hands wandered restlessly around Crowley’s back, shoulders, hips, and waist, feeling every jutting bone and taut muscle. In another flash of bravery, he slipped his hands underneath Crowley’s shirt to feel all the lovely soft skin that was hiding underneath.

Crowley groaned. He broke away from Aziraphale’s mouth and began to trail kisses across his cheek, simultaneously reaching up to tangle long fingers into his hair. When the kisses reached Aziraphale’s ear, Crowley tilted his head back, took Aziraphale’s earlobe into his mouth, and gave it a gentle bite.

Aziraphale’s self-control shattered with a jerk of his hips. He grabbed Crowley by his sharp hipbones and ground up hard, gasping as his already half-interested cock began to stiffen. Crowley moaned into his ear and ground down with another pull on Aziraphale’s hair. Aziraphale could feel through his thin trousers that he was getting hard, too.

_I’m either dreaming or dead_. If heaven was real, and this was it, he had to give the Almighty a lot of credit. He squeezed Crowley’s hips again and ran his hands up along his bare ribs. Crowley shivered.

“Do you want this off?” he whispered into Aziraphale’s ear, tugging at his shirt with his one free hand.

_Oh my goodness. Oh my God._ “Yes,” Aziraphale whispered hoarsely back.

“Okay,” Crowley said, kissing him one more time before sitting up. He popped the buttons off so quickly that Aziraphale was afraid they would come off, then balled up his shirt and threw it behind him. Aziraphale laughed. It was so very Crowley.

“Oh, you’re gorgeous, darling,” he murmured, reaching out to touch Crowley’s side with reverent fingers. He was, too. Not muscular enough for a magazine cover, perhaps, but thin and wiry and lovely all the same. Crowley’s arms were marked with a slight farmer’s tan from working in the garden, and his torso was covered in a sprinkling of freckles. He didn’t have very much body hair, but what he did have was an even darker red than the stuff on his head. Aziraphale traced the line of fuzz that went from his navel to the waistband of his jeans. Crowley giggled and shied away.

Aziraphale looked up at him with glee. “You’re ticklish, too!”

“Lies,” Crowley said, leaning over to kiss him. “Do you want to return the favor?” he murmured in between kisses, tugging at the collar of Aziraphale’s shirt.

Aziraphale shivered. “If you like.”

He sat up just enough to unbutton his shirt and carefully untuck it, then shrugged it off and laid it on the bedside table. When he was done, he looked back up at Crowley and fought the urge to cross his arms over his chest.

Crowley looked down at him and sighed. “Of course you would wear an undershirt.”

Aziraphale pressed his lips into a hard line. “I am a civilized human being, yes.”

Crowley gave a halfhearted sort of laugh and licked his lips, still staring down. Aziraphale held his breath as he watched Crowley struggle with himself. He had no idea what he would do if Crowley asked him to take the undershirt off too, but he couldn’t see it going well regardless. _Please, please, please…_

Finally, Crowley sighed and laid back down, and Aziraphale breathed an answering sigh of relief. He ran his hands over Crowley’s torso, feeling the muscles work just under the skin, then began to scratch lightly up and down Crowley’s back. Crowley groaned quietly in contentment, and they began to kiss again, slow and sweet. The frantic heat of a few minutes before had subsided, but that was all right. Aziraphale was not about to complain when he had a half-naked Crowley lying on top of him. He kissed down Crowley’s slim neck, then the place where neck met shoulder, then the dip above his collarbone. It was hard to reach anything lower than that with Crowley lying on top of him, but he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to try.

“That feels so good,” Crowley whispered. “Do you want to keep going?”

“Mm-hmm,” Aziraphale said absently. He was trying to lay a kiss at the top of Crowley’s sternum, but he couldn’t quite reach.

“Kay.”

Then all of a sudden, Crowley wiggled his hands underneath Aziraphale’s back, squeezed him close, and rolled them over. It was so unexpected that all Aziraphale could do was freeze, first in shock and then horror as a sharp exhale burst out of Crowley’s mouth. The weight— _his_ weight—was crushing all the air out of his lungs. Crowley grinned at him, not seeming to mind, but Aziraphale cringed and pushed his arms away so he could roll off. He laid on his side, facing away from Crowley and trying not to cry.

“I’m sorry,” came Crowley’s miserable voice from behind him. “I thought that was what you wanted.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Aziraphale said, hating the stupid, stupid quaver in his voice. “I…I think I’m too heavy to do that. You can’t breathe.”

Crowley groaned. “Aziraphale. C’mon. Look at me, please?”

Aziraphale didn’t look right away. He was still trying to blink away the nascent tears prickling at his eyes. But eventually he was able to roll over onto his other side and look at Crowley, who met his eyes with an expression of such disappointment and sadness that Aziraphale almost started crying again.

“I’m fine,” Crowley said softly. “See? Completely fine. I’m not that breakable. And I _liked_ it. I liked having you on top of me. I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t.”

“Maybe you didn’t know what you were getting yourself into,” Aziraphale mumbled.

Crowley squinted at him suspiciously. “Do you think I’ve only ever been with people who look just like me, or what?”

Aziraphale sniffed and looked away. He was embarrassed to admit it now, but Crowley had hit the nail perfectly on the head. That was the whole reason he’d never admitted how he felt. It should have been obvious by now that it wasn’t true, but had he stopped to think about that? Of course he hadn’t. He closed his eyes in defeat and curled up a little tighter.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale opened his eyes. Crowley was scooting closer, reaching out for him again. “Angel. Can I hold you, please? And is it all right for me to call you that?”

_Angel_. Aziraphale blinked hard, nodded and let Crowley pull him in again. They ended up with Crowley on his back and Aziraphale curled up next to him, head on Crowley’s bare chest. Crowley squeezed him gently and pressed a kiss into his hair.

“Thank you.”

Aziraphale did not reply. He didn’t trust himself to talk yet, and he didn’t know what he would have said even if he did. Crowley was the one who eventually broke the silence.

“When someone asks you to take off your clothes…it’s like they’re asking you to take off your armor, isn’t it?”

“Nobody’s ever wanted my clothes off before, Crowley,” Aziraphale said tiredly. “But yes, I suppose.”

Crowley squeezed him again, harder this time, and said nothing. Aziraphale waited. He hoped Crowley wasn’t going to say something pitying. It wasn’t that he’d never found anyone who was willing to touch him before; he’d had dates end in kissing and groping just like everyone else. He had never gone beyond that, though, and Aziraphale was fairly sure he knew why. It hurt, but he didn’t need anyone’s pity, and definitely not Crowley’s. That didn’t mean he couldn’t take it gracefully, though.

“I won’t get angry at you,” he said finally. “For whatever it is that you want to say. I won’t jump to conclusions, I won’t run away, and I won’t kick you out. If I don’t understand, I’ll tell you. Okay?”

“’Preciate it,” Crowley said into his hair. “Are you ready?”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and braced himself. “Yes.”

“Right. Here goes, then. I…like the way you are. I know that you like food, and staying inside and reading all day. Or night. I like you because of those things, not in spite of ‘em. I like it that you’re warm and giving and cozy and…soft. I see all those things; I always have. I haven’t been ignoring or overlooking anything. I’ve seen all of it, and I want all of it. All of you. Just as you are.”

_Oh, no._ That wasn’t what he’d expected at all. Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut as hard as he could, but it was no use. The tears broke through, and with them a choked sob.

“S’okay to cry, angel,” Crowley whispered, rubbing his back. “And I know that me saying all that doesn’t undo a lifetime of people telling you the opposite. But I’m willing to say it again, and again, and again. Okay?”

Aziraphale nodded, unable to speak through the racking sobs. Crowley simply pulled him closer and stroked his hair, murmuring soft soothing things while Aziraphale soaked his chest in tears. They stayed like that for a long time, until the tears had slowed and the sobs had turned into occasional hiccups. Finally, Aziraphale pulled away and grabbed a handful of tissues off the bedside table—one for his nose, the others for Crowley’s chest.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Aziraphale said sternly. He threw the tissues into the bin, sniffed one last time, and sat up. Crowley was looking at him again, pretty golden eyes worried and impossibly fond. Aziraphale smiled at him and petted his hair. He could do that anytime he wanted now, he realized. _How wonderful._

“I have an idea,” he said quietly. He took Crowley’s hand and slid to the edge of the bed, tugging gently until Crowley sat up and followed him. Then he got up, led Crowley back to the door, and turned him around, pushing him backwards as he did it until Crowley’s back was pressed against the wood again. Crowley, who was looking at him in utter confusion, opened his mouth to say something, but Aziraphale put a finger to his lips.

“I have an idea,” he said again. “Let’s…start over. Do it right this time, or at least try. What do you think, my darling?”

Crowley’s eyes widened. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, Aziraphale thought he might say no…but he didn’t. He just took a deep breath, pulled Aziraphale back into his arms, and smiled.

“Okay, angel. Whatever you want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Body image issues, specific to being fat. There's really no getting around it in the second scene, but I can promise that it ends very happily. Synopsis: Aziraphale takes Crowley upstairs, things start to get hot and heavy, Aziraphale finds that he's not okay with Crowley touching/seeing his body as it is and pushes him away. Crowley says something that makes Aziraphale cry (in a good way), and Aziraphale decides to give the whole thing another try. 
> 
> I'm back on my bullshit again :P This, and the next chapter (well, the whole fic, really, but especially those two chapters) are the most self-indulgent thing I've ever written. Rating is going up, as is the chapter count, and I sincerely apologize for pulling a bait-and-switch. I'll do my best to help anyone who would rather avoid the smut do so in the CW for the next chapter. Thank you all for reading, as usual <3


	15. Crowley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SMUT. (and some angst, and body worship, and fluff.) 
> 
> (see endnotes for CW, and if you are interested in avoiding smut)

Crowley kissed Aziraphale gently, luxuriously. His hands roved in circles over a broad back, eliciting little hums as they went. It would have been nice to lose himself in the kiss, but Crowley knew he couldn’t afford not to think right now. He pulled Aziraphale a little closer, tangled one hand into that beautiful hair, and hoped Aziraphale couldn’t tell his mind was going a hundred miles an hour. 

It wasn’t easy to hold back, though, not with that soft body pressed against his, setting all his nerves alight with anticipation and sending blood in a rush down to his groin. The warm hands stroking up and down his bare sides didn’t help either. _God_. If he hadn’t just been faced with proof that Aziraphale didn’t know what kind of effect he had on him, he would have wondered if Aziraphale was intentionally teasing him. It was all he could do not to pull off every remaining stitch of clothing on his body, so Aziraphale could run those hands over the rest of him with that same reverent touch.

But he didn’t. He just kissed Aziraphale’s mouth, then his soft cheeks, then his cute nose that was still a little red from crying. Aziraphale giggled, and a little more of the tension he’d been carrying in his back and shoulders eased away. Their mouths met once more, and when Aziraphale was soft and pliant in his arms again, Crowley used the hand that was woven into Aziraphale’s hair to tilt his head back, just like he had earlier.

Aziraphale’s reaction was just as strong as it had been the first time. He gasped into Crowley’s mouth, and the hands that had been so gently caressing Crowley’s bare torso suddenly began to grasp and squeeze. But instead of pressing Crowley against the door, Aziraphale began to back up, pulling Crowley towards the bed and kissing him furiously all the while. Crowley didn’t fight it. He just followed Aziraphale’s lead, trying not to trip over his own feet again and kissing Aziraphale just as frantically back.

“Lie on top of me again?” Aziraphale said breathlessly when they reached the bed. “I really liked that.”

_As if he needed to ask_. Crowley laid him back against the pillow and slid over him, relishing the plush feel of his body. He ran reverent hands over Aziraphale’s sides. The material of his undershirt was so thin, and underneath it he could feel the heat of his skin burning through. He groaned. It would feel so good when Aziraphale finally let him touch all that softness with no more barriers in between. No more flimsy fabric keeping them apart, just skin on skin. At that, Crowley slotted their legs together and ground his hips down onto soft thighs, unable to stop himself any longer.

“You feel so good, angel,” he whispered. “Can’t believe I finally get to touch you.”

Aziraphale didn’t answer, or at least not with words. He just moaned and canted his own hips upward, then reached down to grab Crowley’s arse with both hands. Crowley gasped and thrust down even harder, and his cock, which had grown almost painfully hard within his tight trousers, throbbed. As they continued to grind on each other, the pressure grew so unbearable that Crowley was finally forced to do something about it. He reached a hand between them, intending just to undo the button on his trousers, but Aziraphale caught it, brought it back out, kissed it.

“Here. Let me.”

“Okay,” Crowley said breathlessly. He tried not to squirm as Aziraphale undid not only Crowley’s trouser button but his fly as well. When Aziraphale was done, Crowley rewarded him with a hard grind of hips and a bite on his sensitive neck, drawing out another gorgeous moan and a helpless thrust upward. But as happy as that made him, it couldn’t match the way he felt the next moment, when Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley’s chest and rolled them over. Aziraphale wasn’t quite so heavy this time—he seemed to be supporting himself on his elbows and knees a little, to keep the weight off of Crowley’s chest—but his body still surrounded Crowley’s skinny torso with warmth and softness, and wasn’t that the most wonderful thing in the whole world.

Crowley groaned. “ _Angel_.”

He felt Aziraphale smile into his neck. “Yes, darling?”

_Darling_. Oh, that was good. Very, very good. Crowley pressed Aziraphale even closer and sighed. “You feel so— _mmm_.”

A giggle. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It is,” Crowley whispered. He kissed Aziraphale’s neck. “I really like having you this way. Want to know why?”

“Why?”

“Because I can do this,” Crowley said, slipping both hands into Aziraphale’s trousers and grabbing his lovely round arse. It overfilled his palms beautifully, and God, it was so _soft_. His cock twitched, demanding friction, and Crowley obeyed.

It was like striking gold. Aziraphale whined, loudly, and his hips stuttered up and down in little waves. He came apart in Crowley’s hands as he stroked and rubbed, his hands running up and down every part of Crowley he could reach and his breath turning into panting gasps. Crowley had never heard a prettier sound in his life. A few more minutes of this, he thought, and Aziraphale would come with all his clothes still on. Or…

“Do you want me to make you feel good, angel?” he whispered into Aziraphale’s ear.

“You already are,” Aziraphale gasped. “What do you mean—”

“I mean with my mouth, angel,” Crowley murmured. “I could kiss you all over your pretty body, and not stop when I got between your legs, if you catch my drift. Would you like that?”

Aziraphale shuddered, then stilled completely. Crowley pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. Apprehension was flickering in them again, and uncertainty too. Crowley kissed his tense mouth and reached one hand up to stroke his face.

🍏 “I could do it with your shirt on. Up to you.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes. “It wouldn’t be fair if I left it on.”

“No,” Crowley said sternly. “That’s not how this works. We’re doing what you feel comfortable with doing. Just because mine’s off doesn’t mean yours has to be.”

As he said it, he pulled his other hand out of Aziraphale’s trousers and slipped it up the back of his undershirt. That was probably fine, he figured. He was willing to bet Aziraphale was most shy about having his belly and sides touched or seen. Crowley understood perfectly now why Aziraphale hadn’t wanted to take off his shirt before, and he also knew that his own appreciation, while flattering, did not cure Aziraphale’s self-consciousness. He just hoped that Aziraphale knew that if he did decide to be brave, he would get a more enthusiastic reception than any he had ever dared imagine.

“Do you want it off?” Aziraphale said finally. “Really. Do you _want_ it off. Are you, are you…”

Crowley squeezed him tight. “Excited about it? Yes. Very.”

“Okay,” Aziraphale whispered. “Then I’ll take it off.”

🍎 He kissed Crowley’s cheek one last time and sat up, mirroring how Crowley had straddled him earlier. It was harder for him; his thighs were thicker and they got in the way. Crowley imagined what it would be like to see those thighs bare and ran his hands over them, squirming a little as his body reacted to the mental image.

Aziraphale noticed, and he put a hand over the bulge in Crowley’s pants and gave it an experimental stroke. Crowley gasped and ground into Aziraphale’s hand, but Aziraphale pulled it away a moment later. It was all Crowley could do not to groan in frustration.

🍏 Aziraphale must have seen it on his face anyway, though, because he sighed and ran a hand over Crowley’s chest. “I’m sorry, darling. I’m teasing you, aren’t I?”

“Hng. It’s fine. I know you’re not, uh. Doing it on purpose.”

“No,” Aziraphale said quietly. “I’m not. I just haven’t got a clue what I’m doing, and I’m afraid of disappointing you.”

“You won’t,” Crowley insisted. “You couldn’t. There’s no possible way. I’m already here in bed with you; anything else is just a bonus.”

Aziraphale smiled. “You know, if this didn’t feel so real, I’d think I was dead and gone to heaven. You’re almost too wonderful.”

Crowley’s lip curled. “No, this is real. I’m a hundred percent sure there’s no fornicating allowed in heaven.”

That earned him a laugh, high and pretty like Aziraphale’s laughs always were. Crowley stroked his hands up those beautiful thighs again as Aziraphale giggled. They ended up at the hem of Aziraphale’s undershirt, toying with the edge of it without lifting or pulling. Aziraphale caught them, pulled them gently away.

“Will you close your eyes?” he said, still holding Crowley’s hands.

Crowley’s heart sank, but he nodded and obeyed anyway. When his eyes were shut tight, Aziraphale carefully placed Crowley’s hands down on his stomach and pulled away. There was a shuffling, rocking movement, then stillness again. Crowley heard the shirt hit the bed next to him with a soft thump, but kept his eyes shut. Aziraphale had told him to close them, and closed they would stay until Aziraphale said otherwise.

A long moment passed. Crowley could feel anxious eyes heavy on his face. He smiled and rubbed a warm knee in each hand.

“Can I touch you yet, angel?”

“Yes,” came Aziraphale’s voice, strained and soft. “You can open your eyes, too.”

Crowley opened his eyes. Aziraphale was indeed shirtless, thick arms crossed tightly over his chest and stomach. They didn’t hide everything—they were nowhere near big enough for that—but Crowley did not look. He just continued to stroke Aziraphale’s thighs and craned his head forward, trying to catch Aziraphale’s eye.

“Having second thoughts, angel?”

“No,” Aziraphale said tightly. His mouth trembled. Then he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and let his arms fall. Crowley caught his hands before they could hit the bed, kissed them, and _looked_.

The soft neck he’d been kissing and biting earlier flowed beautifully into broad, straight shoulders, thick and firm under a layer of softness. Aziraphale’s skin was smooth and bone-pale, as though the sun hadn’t touched it for years and years. He was so pale, in fact, that it was hard to see the patch of light blonde hair in the middle of his chest. It was a very nice chest—wide and rounded-square, with puffy pink nipples that Crowley immediately wanted to bite. So far, so good, as far as Crowley was concerned.

His eyes traveled downward, coming to a halt just below Aziraphale’s belly button. This was where the silky-smooth skin stopped. Aziraphale’s stomach was covered in a maze of stretch marks, some silvery-white, some angry red. Crowley, who had never had a stretch mark in his life, wondered if it hurt to get them. He hoped not. Aziraphale had already been punished enough for daring to be soft in a world that only appreciated hardness.

Without saying a word, he reached out and touched a stretch-mark-covered side. Aziraphale’s love handles bulged slightly over the sides of his trousers, which pushed them up and created matching creases above each lovely curve. They were soft, just like his neck and cheeks, but softer still was his belly, which spilled out past his waistband in a wide arc. Crowley ran his hands over it in slow circles, traveling occasionally up to caress Aziraphale’s chest, shoulders, arms, neck, and sides. Every inch of him felt incredible. It was impossible to say what was better, looking at Aziraphale’s body or touching, and Crowley was unbelievably grateful that he didn’t have to choose just one.

“You’re so beautiful, angel,” he murmured as his hands made their rounds. “And you feel so, so good. Thank you for doing this for m—Angel, what’s wrong?”

In his eagerness to look and to touch, he had forgotten to look up to gauge Aziraphale’s reaction, and what a mistake that had been. The fragile, terrified look Aziraphale had been wearing before he’d dropped his arms had gone all crumpled and twisted, and fat tears were starting to leak out of his eyes. They were open now, and in them Crowley could see Aziraphale’s whole soft soul, as bare as his body and just as beautiful. It hurt to see him like that, and yet Crowley found that he could not look away.

“I,” Aziraphale sobbed. “I didn’t—I never—”

“Come here, angel,” Crowley said, sitting up as best he could and pulling Aziraphale back down to lie on his chest. He rubbed Aziraphale’s back as he cried for the second time in an hour and kicked himself internally. There was a possibility Aziraphale would have reacted with tears no matter how long they waited to do this, but it probably would have gone better if they had given it a few weeks.

How did he keep getting this wrong? All he wanted to do was make Aziraphale happy, and all he ended up doing instead was making him cry. The part that was supposed to be hard, the part where they told each other how they felt, that was done now. So why wasn’t everything tickety-boo, or whatever the fuck it was Aziraphale always said? He stared up at the ceiling and sighed.

“Stop worrying,” Aziraphale said into the pillow. “I can feel you thinking. Quit it. Everything is fine; I’m just being silly.”

Crowley opened his mouth, about to shoot back a skeptical response, but before he could say anything, he realized that Aziraphale was right. The sobs had stopped; Aziraphale was breathing almost normally again. He’d just been too caught up in his own head to notice.

“Okay,” he mumbled. “Am I allowed to apologize, because I feel like—”

“No,” Aziraphale said firmly. “You may not, because you have done nothing wrong. I did what you asked of my own free will, and it’s not your fault I decided to be ridiculous about it.”

He kissed Crowley’s hair, then grabbed him around the waist and pulled him on top again. The way Aziraphale so easily tossed him around made Crowley suspect that there was quite a bit of muscle underneath the soft padding of fat on his arms and torso, and that certainly had a lot of interesting possibilities.

“In fact,” Aziraphale continued, interrupting Crowley’s reverie, “I should apologize to _you_ , because you seemed like you were rather enjoying yourself a minute ago, before I interrupted.”

He smiled up at Crowley, bright and happy despite the patina of tears still shining on his cheeks. Crowley’s heart melted. He hummed his agreement, propped himself up on his elbows, and leaned down to kiss the tears away, one by one. 🍎

\--

It was a pity that Aziraphale’s neck was so ticklish. Every time he tilted his head back for more kisses, his neck was exposed, and Crowley couldn’t resist kissing it. And every time, Aziraphale would giggle and bring his chin down on Crowley’s head. A vicious cycle. So Crowley went lower, peppering Aziraphale’s collarbone and shoulders with soft pecks. The tears were gone now, all kissed away, and Crowley was beginning to hope Aziraphale would let him take care of him, like he’d promised earlier.

“Do you know if you’re clean, angel?” he murmured in between kisses.

“I had a shower this morning,” Aziraphale said dreamily. His eyes were closed, and his hands were petting every part of Crowley within reach, as if he were trying to memorize the shape of his body through touch.

Crowley didn’t laugh, but it was a near thing. “That’s good to know, but not quite what I mean.”

Aziraphale blushed all the way down to his chest. “Oh. Right. Yeah, I am. Are you?”

“Mm-hmm,” Crowley said as he pressed a kiss to the very edge of the blush. “Would you like me to make good on the offer I made you earlier?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale whispered.

“Okay.”

Crowley stroked his ribs with a thumb and kissed Aziraphale’s chest again, soft and slow. It gave a little under his mouth with each kiss, and the hair tickled his nose. The next kiss was just a little lower down, and the next one a little lower than that. As Crowley made his way down Aziraphale’s chest and belly, he felt Aziraphale start to get turned on again—little twitches and shifts, a sharp inhale here, a whine there. Crowley took his time. He teased Aziraphale’s nipples and kissed as many of the stretch marks as he could while still making his way down, down, down, until he reached the waistband of Aziraphale’s trousers.

“Can I take these off, angel?” he said, kissing the soft skin along the hem.

“Yes,” Aziraphale gasped, squirming. “Please.”

Crowley didn’t waste a second. In no time at all he had divested Aziraphale of trousers, pants, and socks and left them in a heap on the floor. It was like unwrapping a whole boxful of presents. Plush thighs and calves dusted in golden hair, cushy hips spread wide with Aziraphale lying down, little chubby feet and toes curling in anticipation. Crowley caressed Aziraphale’s feet, ran reverent hands up his calves, stopped at the thighs, and tugged them to one side.

“Sit on the edge for me?”

Aziraphale obeyed. He was nearly all the way hard now, his cock red and stiff against his belly. Crowley knelt between his knees and pushed gently on his shoulders. Aziraphale laid back, but not all the way—he kept himself propped up on his elbows, wide blue eyes never leaving Crowley for a second. Crowley smiled. If Aziraphale wanted to watch, then he deserved a show.

He started with the thighs, kissing, licking, biting. They were so soft, especially the sensitive inside part, and the thick muscle of them jumped and tensed under his mouth. His hands crept up the outsides of Aziraphale’s legs as he went, until they rested on soft hips. Crowley gripped just hard enough to keep him in place, kissed along the side of his already-dripping cock, then looked up…met Aziraphale’s eyes…and took it into his mouth.

“Ahh! _Mmm_ , oh my God. _Crowley_.”

Crowley hummed around Aziraphale’s cock and swirled his tongue over the tip, licking the bitter taste away. That made Aziraphale gasp and jerk even harder—too hard—so Crowley wrapped a firm hand around the base of his cock to dull the sensation, took it deeper into his mouth, and sucked. This time, he was rewarded with a full-throated groan and a tiny roll of Aziraphale’s hips. He glanced up and shivered a little at the look on Aziraphale’s face—cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes glazed over with desire. _Perfect_.

Slowly, he came up, then down again, a little farther this time. This he repeated over and over until the tip of his tongue was touching his hand each time. Aziraphale’s cock was thick, but not so long that Crowley couldn’t take it all into his mouth and throat with ease. His eyes were watering, and his hand was soaking wet from the saliva dripping out of his mouth, but he couldn’t stop, not when Aziraphale was making the kinds of sounds Crowley had only ever thought he’d hear in his dreams. Little _ohs_ , tiny whimpers, long closed-mouth groans, and sometimes even Crowley’s name, which was the best treat of all.

He looked up. Aziraphale’s eyes were closed now, his chest heaving as he panted. He looked utterly undone, and all Crowley wanted was to wreck him even more. After one more gentle squeeze, he let go of Aziraphale’s hip and slid his other hand along the shaft of his cock as he sucked on the tip, twisting it just so as it came up and off.

“Oh! Ohhh. _Mmm_. Crowley, darling, please…”

_Yes, angel_ , Crowley wanted to say _. I’ll do whatever you want._ Instead, he sucked and twisted again, earning himself a whine and the hardest thrust of Aziraphale’s hips yet. Crowley groaned in response. It wouldn’t be long now; he could feel Aziraphale losing control as he sucked and stroked, each thrust faster and harder than the last. A minute later, a hot hand twisted itself into his hair and began to push, not hard, but Crowley followed it eagerly anyway, urging Aziraphale on. There were no longer words coming out of Aziraphale’s mouth, just cries of pleasure, high and beautiful, and Crowley burned to hear more.

Then, suddenly, Aziraphale tensed up, and warm fingers pulled on Crowley’s hair. Crowley ignored them. He sucked Aziraphale down again and stayed that way as Aziraphale cried out one last time, swallowing once, then twice when his mouth filled up again. Aziraphale groaned.

“ _Fuck_ , Crowley. God in Heaven.”

Crowley smiled around Aziraphale’s cock. When Aziraphale had spent himself completely, he pulled off in a slow, slick slide and sat up. Aziraphale had flopped down onto his back, eyes shut and mouth open as his breathing returned to normal. He looked so pretty that it seemed a crime not to kiss him, but Crowley wasn’t sure what Aziraphale’s feelings were on tasting his own come, so he just squeezed Aziraphale’s leg and stood up.

“Be right back, angel.”

\--

By the time Crowley returned a few minutes later, having found the bathroom and washed his mouth out with tap water (and admired the rats’ nest Aziraphale had made of his hair in the bathroom mirror), Aziraphale had moved back onto the bed and flipped the edge of the duvet over himself. Crowley frowned.

“Are you cold?”

“No,” Aziraphale mumbled. He pushed the duvet off again as Crowley climbed up next to him, one arm coming to rest at his side, the other over his stomach.

Crowley pressed up against him and stroked his neck. “You can put your clothes back on if you’re uncomfortable, angel.”

“No,” Aziraphale said again, his voice stronger this time. “I’m just being silly again; it’s fine. In fact,” he continued, turning over and running his hands over Crowley’s torso, “why don’t you take off yours? I’d offer to do it myself, but those trousers look like they might be painted on.”

Crowley scowled and tickled Aziraphale’s side, making him squeak and shy away, then rolled away to take off his trousers and pants. The only way he could do it was to turn them inside out and peel them off. When he turned back over again, Aziraphale was wearing a look that was somehow smug and incredibly fond at the same time.

“Come here,” he murmured, reaching out. Crowley immediately slid into his embrace, sighing as the warmth of him sank into his bones. Cuddling naked with Aziraphale was like stepping into a hot bath, taking the first sip of a cup of coffee, and sitting down in a comfortable chair after a long day, all at once. He wriggled closer and kissed Aziraphale with more affection than he could bring himself to express in words.

“Thank you, by the way,” Aziraphale said when they stopped to breathe. “That was wonderful, just now.”

“My pleasure. Can’t believe I got you to _swear_. And blaspheme, too.”

Aziraphale humphed and buried his face in Crowley’s neck. Crowley laughed. “Don’t be embarrassed, angel. I took it as a compliment.”

Another huff, then a kiss. “Oh, all right then.”

They fell silent again, and this time, Aziraphale began to stroke up and down Crowley’s body, just like he’d been fantasizing while they were kissing against the door. One soft hand traveled over Crowley’s shoulder blade, down his back, over the slight curve of his arse, down his thigh…then Aziraphale stroked back up once more, along his hip, over his waist and ribs, and over his shoulder again, all the while kissing him and pressing that incredible body against his front. It was no surprise that Crowley found himself nearly all the way hard again in minutes. He squirmed against Aziraphale’s thighs, desperate for friction.

“What do you want, darling?” Aziraphale whispered into his ear. “It’s your turn now. I’m open to anything you want to try.”

“Jus’ touch me,” Crowley mumbled back. “That’s all I want.”

“Of course, my…dear.”

Crowley hardly had time to ruminate on the pause between the “my” and the “dear” before Aziraphale was pulling away and grabbing something off of his bedside table. When he rolled back again, his fist was closed tight on something Crowley couldn’t see. He could guess, though, and his cock twitched in anticipation.

Aziraphale smiled. “Lie on your back for me?”

Crowley did.

“Thank you, darling.”

Then Aziraphale’s hand, slick with lotion, was on him at last. Crowley drew in a sharp breath and pulled Aziraphale towards him, hungry for as much contact as he could get. Aziraphale scooted in, pressing his soft front against Crowley’s side and tangling their legs together.

And then the whole world was still, except for them, and the only noises in it were their breathing and the sound of Aziraphale’s hand. It was so simple, and yet somehow one of the most intimate things Crowley had ever done. He closed his eyes and let his mind wander along all the happy pathways he had never let it explore before, the ones that led to a future with Aziraphale. Lazy mornings together, nights out, long walks when the weather was nice and cuddles inside when it wasn’t.

_Amazing_.

“What are you thinking about, my dear?” Aziraphale whispered in Crowley’s ear. He changed his grip so he could tease the head better on the way up, and Crowley’s hips jerked up in response.

“Hnn. Us. Together. S’good.”

Aziraphale nuzzled his neck. “I agree. I was just thinking the same thing.”

“Mmm.”

Soft lips traveled along the edge of his ear. “I have an idea about something we could do together. Would you like to hear it?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Okay. I think we ought to go stargazing again, darling. Alone this time. What do you think?”

Crowley inhaled sharply as all the possibilities they’d missed out on a few months ago suddenly flooded through his mind. He thrusted into Aziraphale’s hand, hoping that was a good enough answer to make Aziraphale go on.

It was. Aziraphale began to stroke faster as his soft whisper filled Crowley’s ear.

“Let’s go back one of these nights, a warmer one, but we’ll bring lots of blankets, just in case. You can show me constellations, like before, and I’ll keep you warm. But this time, you could kiss me whenever you like, and touch me all over with those lovely hands of yours. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

_Oh, God. Yes,_ yes. Crowley clutched Aziraphale closer and panted hard, silently imploring him not to stop.

“Yes, I thought so. And then, when we’d found them all, you could spread me out on the blankets, take off all my clothes nice and slow—”

Crowley groaned. He could see it, all of it, in his head, as though it were real. The blanket, the grass, Aziraphale, soft and gasping and open in his arms…

“—and when I was all ready for you, you could have me, right there under the stars, and I would call out your name and tell you how good you feel, so very good, my darling, my Crowley…”

That did it. Crowley gasped and came harder than he ever had from hands alone, all over his stomach and Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale stroked him through it, then kissed him and pulled away. Crowley didn’t move an inch. He lay boneless and panting as Aziraphale cleaned the come off of them both with what felt like his undershirt and tried to wrap his head around the reverence, the adoration Aziraphale seemed to have for him. Sex with Aziraphale was like a form of worship, and he could hardly believe he was going to get to do it _again_.

🍏 “Wow.”

“Was it good?” Aziraphale said hesitantly. “I know I don’t have your level of, um—”

Crowley opened his eyes and fixed him with an indignant glare. “It was great. Five out of five stars. Don’t sell yourself short.”

Aziraphale giggled. “Okay.”

He scooted back in, and they curled up together again. In minutes, Crowley was struggling to keep his eyes open. Aziraphale was so comfortable, he hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in a week, and how the hell was he supposed to stay awake with Aziraphale yawning and snuggling closer every few minutes, anyway? Impossible.

“We should get under the covers,” Aziraphale said finally.

“Mmm-hmm. Yeah.”

“Otherwise we’re going to fall asleep right here.”

“Right. Yep.”

Neither of them moved. Then Aziraphale sighed, rolled away, and pulled the covers out from under Crowley’s prone body. Crowley grinned.

“Lazy,” Aziraphale grumbled as he climbed back into bed. He made a deeper divot in the mattress than Crowley did, which meant that Crowley naturally rolled into him. Aziraphale was a star, and he was a passing planet being pulled into orbit. The exact opposite of a problem.

“If you don’t like it, you should stop being so nice to me,” he mumbled into Aziraphale’s hair. They had settled into a spooning position, with him as the big spoon and Aziraphale the little spoon, and now it was even harder to stay awake.

“No, I couldn’t do that,” Aziraphale said softly, picking up the hand that was draped across his chest and kissing it. “Not when you’re so good to me, darling.”

_Darling_ again. That was so nice that Crowley didn’t even bother protesting against the part about him being good. He pressed his whole self against Aziraphale’s back and squeezed him tight.

_Soft_.

He didn’t realize he’d said it out loud until Aziraphale laughed and pressed their clasped hands to his chest.

“Yes, very soft. Go to sleep, my dear.”

“Kay,” Crowley whispered. “Angel.”

His eyes slid shut, and that was it. One moment he was holding Aziraphale in his arms, and the next he was gone. Sleep had crept up on tiptoes and stolen him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Insecurity and fat-specific body image issues. All dealt with gently and respectfully. Begins when Crowley asks Azizraphale if he'd like to take off his shirt and ends when the scene does. 
> 
> Hello, no-smut fam! Here is the handy-dandy system I thunk up to help avoid smut: Green apple (🍏) means "start here," red apple (🍎) means "stop." Hoping it's not too distracting? Lemme know what you think :)  
> Chapter summary: Aziraphale and Crowley start off kissing and making out, things get hot 'n heavy, Crowley asks Aziraphale if he'd like to do something that's easier with shirts off. Aziraphale is afraid, but he takes off his shirt anyway. Crowley is very appreciative, and Aziraphale is so relieved he starts to cry. Cuddles ensue. Then smut! Then fluffy cuddles and sleeping together. 
> 
> Sorry this chapter took so damn long. I'm in the process of quitting my terrible, awful, no-good job, and I'm still not totally sure whether they're going to screw me over on the way out. It's been a fun time. Comments are especially appreciated right now, although no pressure as always :)


	16. Aziraphale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things fall into place :)

The light outside was low when Aziraphale woke up. He had turned onto his back at some point, and Crowley had taken the opportunity to coil his entire long-limbed self around him and press a sharp cheek into his shoulder. Aziraphale laughed through his nose. No wonder he’d woken up; having Crowley wrapped around him like a starving snake had left him burning hot and sweating even with all his clothes off.

He reached over and touched Crowley’s hair. It was a terrible mess; Crowley was going to have his work cut out for him trying to comb it later. Carefully, so as not to wake him, Aziraphale worked the hair tie out of the tangled mass and placed it on his bedside table. Then, with slow, gentle fingers, he worked out as many knots as he could without pulling and brushed it back. Crowley shifted and sighed in his sleep, but didn’t wake up.

When Aziraphale finished, he kissed Crowley’s head and craned his neck to see Crowley’s face. It was crumpled and squished on one side and totally slack on the other; which was at the same time the funniest and most endearing thing Aziraphale had ever seen. He couldn’t laugh—that would have woken Crowley up—so he settled for smiling so big his cheeks hurt and letting out a tiny hum.

For a while, he stayed just like that, holding Crowley and watching his thin chest rise and fall with each breath, but eventually he couldn’t stand the heat anymore. With a sigh of his own, he gently unwrapped Crowley’s limbs and scooted out from under him, laying Crowley’s head back on the pillow as he went.

Crowley stirred and reached out for him, eyes still shut tight. “Ngk. Angelwhereyougoin.”

“Just to the kitchen,” Aziraphale said, kissing his hands before letting them go again. “You go back to sleep.”

Crowley tossed over onto his back and flopped dramatically against the pillow. “Hurry up.”

Aziraphale laughed and said nothing. He would have bet money that Crowley was going to be back asleep before he even finished getting dressed. As he puttered around gathering the clothes he’d worn earlier and putting them back on (with clean underthings, of course) he stole occasional glances as Crowley’s limp form. He hadn’t bothered to pull the bedclothes back up after Aziraphale had climbed out, and his mouth slowly fell open again over the course of a minute. By the time Aziraphale was done and standing at the door, Crowley’s breathing was deep and slow once more.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered.

No answer. Aziraphale giggled. He paused a moment more to admire the sharp lines of him—cheekbones, jaw, collarbones, shoulders, ribs—then reluctantly tore his gaze away and went out. 

He hummed as he went down the stairs— _Ode to Joy._ The second he finished pouring his glass of water, he chugged half of it in one go and had to refill it. When that one was gone, he poured another, opened the small kitchen window, and let the evening air wash over his face.

When he’d sufficiently cooled off, he sat down at the kitchen table to finish his water. His eyes slowly went out of focus as the highlights of the day played in his head. _What a day_. If he hadn’t just woken up with Crowley in his bed, he would have doubted the memories were real. Crowley confessing a nearly year-long crush on him and kissing him sober was fantastical enough, but somehow these were the least incredible events of the day.

Aziraphale sipped his water and gazed heavenward. Never in his wildest imaginings had he dreamed up the look Crowley had worn when he’d taken off his clothes. He had only ever hoped to find someone who would look at him without revulsion, not with the kind of reverence people usually reserved for fine art. No, if Crowley hadn’t stayed, he would have convinced himself that the whole thing was a fever dream, brought on by the exhaustion and emotional turmoil of one of the worst weeks of his life.

Although…the flowers would still have been there. Even the most delirious mind couldn’t make flowers appear out of nowhere. Aziraphale’s smile, which had slipped somewhat as he worried over what might have been, came back in full force. He refilled his water glass for the last time and headed to the living room to go admire them, humming again. When he got to the door, he bounced through intending to make a beeline for the flowers, but stopped short. There was already someone there.

A very smug someone.

“Well, well, well,” Tracy said. She sipped her tea and grinned like the cat that ate the canary. “Hel- _lo_ there, Aziraphale. I think you have some explaining to do, dear.”

Aziraphale knew without a doubt that his face must look like a ripe tomato. He sat down on the same chair he’d been sitting on earlier and fixed his eyes somewhere to the left of Tracy’s head.

“Your hair doesn’t look any different.”

Tracy laughed. “I won’t argue with that. Now, stop looking like you’ve just been put in front of the firing squad. His car is still outside, and you came in here floating on cloud nine, so I know the two of you must have made up.”

“Yeah,” Aziraphale mumbled. “What do you want to know.”

“Oh, everything you’re willing to tell me, starting from the beginning,” Tracy said cheerfully.

So Aziraphale told her, and Tracy put her face in her hands and let her tea get cold. He relaxed as he went; Tracy asked good questions and kept the teasing to a minimum. When he got to the part where he’d gone home believing Crowley was too drunk to know what he was doing, she looked at him with so much empathy he had to look away.

“I knew you were upset, dear,” she said quietly. “But I could tell you didn’t want to talk about it.”

Aziraphale felt his eyes prickle, again. _For goodness’ sake_. He blinked hard and pushed on.

“Well, it turned out he was just as upset as me...”

He continued the story to the present day, skipping over Crowley’s awkward entrance, and told an abridged version of Crowley’s tale and their making up. When he reached the part where he invited Crowley upstairs, he stuttered to a stop. Tracy laughed.

“That’s quite enough, dear, I don’t need to know anything past that. So he’s sleeping it off upstairs, then.”

Aziraphale’s face was still burning, but his mouth twisted into a smile anyway. “Yes.”

Tracy beamed. “Oh, _lovely_. I’m so happy for you, dear. Don’t worry, I’ll make myself scarce before he comes down.”

“Tracy, this is your house,” Aziraphale told her, incredulous. “You don’t have to do anything. And I haven’t thanked you yet for dragging me downstairs earlier and leaving us to it. I don’t think I can ever express how grateful I am.”

She waved him off. “It was my pleasure, love. I only had to look at him, all dressed up with his heart on his sleeve, and I knew I wasn’t going to let him leave without you hearing him out. I lead a boring life, you know. I have to get my kicks somehow.”

Aziraphale made a mental resolution to buy Tracy something really, really nice for her next birthday. “Boring? You commune with the dead for a living.”

“The living only want to hear the same few things over and over again anyway. I love you, I’m proud of you, I’m in a better place, and no, there isn’t any money buried in the back garden. It’s less interesting than you’d think.”

“Well, we’ll have to set you up with someone and spice things up. How about Mr. Shadwell?”

It was a joke—Shadwell was their rude, paranoid, conspiracy-theory nut of a neighbor—but to his surprise, Tracy blushed and spluttered. Aziraphale grinned. _Interesting_. Tracy squinted and pursed her lips. “You get that look off your face.”

“No, I don’t think I will.”

“Oh, you…Go back upstairs before he misses you. I have to take a little snooze myself soon; I have a midnight seance tonight.”

Obediently, he picked up his water glass and did as she said, smiling all the way. “You haven’t heard the last of this,” he called as he went up the stairs.

“I’ll raise your rent, young man.”

\--

Aziraphale softly closed the door behind him, rotating the knob back manually so it wouldn’t click, and patted his hair. He'd stopped off in the bathroom to freshen up, which was probably silly since he and Crowley knew each other so well already, but there was no harm in making an effort, was there? Crowley had certainly made an effort for him earlier. 

He looked himself up and down. It would be odd (and way too hot) to get in bed with all his clothes on when Crowley was naked, but he generally wasn't comfortable being bare even when he was by himself. After debating with himself for a moment, he compromised--his shirt, socks, and trousers would come off, and his pants and undershirt would stay on. When he was done, he cracked the window and sat back down on the bed, happy butterflies fluttering in his stomach as he took Crowley in again. 

Crowley stirred as the mattress shifted and reached out for him. “C’mere.”

Aziraphale didn't need to be asked twice. He was under the covers and holding Crowley close again in two blinks, petting his head and squeezing his pretty slender body. “Hello, darling,” he whispered in Crowley’s ear. “Would you like to wake up, or go back to sleep?”

Crowley hummed. “Timezzit?”

“It’s past eight o’clock.”

Golden eyes flew open. “Oh, shit.”

Aziraphale stopped breathing. “Are you missing anything? I thought you didn’t work today.”

“Well, no, but I’ve missed all my classes. Oops.”

“I’m sorry," Aziraphale mumbled. "Mine are all in the morning." The butterflies had turned into a sinking, guilty feeling.

“I know,” Crowley said, grinning. “I timed my coming here accordingly. Don’t worry, I didn’t have any exams today or anything. I’ll get the notes from somebody.”

Aziraphale relaxed. “Oh, good.”

“That was some good as fuck sleep,” Crowley said. He kissed Aziraphale gently on the mouth. “Worth missing classes for.”

The next fifteen minutes or so were a study in all the different ways they could kiss. Little pecks all over. Chaste, closed-mouth kisses. Soft kisses pressed to cheeks and foreheads. Languid, open-mouth kisses. Biting, rough kisses that left them both panting. Aziraphale catalogued them all and enjoyed every one. He nipped the tip of Crowley’s sharp nose, making him jerk his head back and squawk.

“Weirdo,” Crowley muttered, rubbing his nose.

Aziraphale bristled. “I’m not the one who was pining over someone I didn’t even know through a window.”

Crowley’s face scrunched adorably. “You bastard. That was below the belt.”

Aziraphale gasped as something suddenly occurred to him. “That’s why you didn’t make fun of Newt! Because you were doing the same thing he was.” He wiggled ecstatically. “Everything makes sense now.”

Crowley groaned. “Oh, God.”

“Oh my goodness. He’s going to have the time of his life with you when he finds out.”

“Oh, shit. Oh, God.”

“And you won’t be able to lie, because Anathema will rat on you. Oh, this is going to be _wonderful_. I simply can’t wait.”

Crowley flipped over and pulled the pillow over his head. “I’m going to change my name and fly to Alpha Centauri before tomorrow night. And you’re not invited.”

\--

Another hour more found them still in bed, talking and cuddling and reveling in one another’s company. They had decided not to have Crowley stay the night—he still needed to get his missed classes sorted out before the next day—but Aziraphale’s bed seemed to have a gravitational pull second only to a black hole. When they did finally roust themselves out, Crowley tossed Aziraphale his phone and told him to put his number in while he got dressed. Aziraphale gladly did so, teasing him all the while (“I think the correct etiquette is to get someone’s number before you get into their pants, darling,”) and laughing when Crowley sulked. It was so sweet, being free and open with each other at last, and Aziraphale never wanted it to end.

But all too soon, Crowley was dressed and ready to go, hair combed and neatly braided by Aziraphale once more. So Aziraphale led him downstairs (Tracy was mysteriously absent), walked him out to his car, kissed him long and slow against it, and waved as it sped down the street. When it finally turned the corner, Aziraphale smiled at the place where it had disappeared and went back in the house.

The first thing he did once inside was text Newt. The poor dear had been going quietly insane all week trying to figure out what was wrong. Aziraphale felt guilty for making him worry, but he was doubly glad now that he hadn’t told Newt everything. Newt would have been angry and possibly even hated Crowley over a misunderstanding. It would have been hard to come back from that, even after everything was made right.

Aziraphale: Hello Newt 😊 I’ll be coming tomorrow night after all.

Newt: What??

Newt: That’s great, I mean

Newt: What changed, though?

Aziraphale: It’ll be easier to explain in person. Do you mind waiting for Anathema and Crowley to be there so I only have to do it once? It’s going to be a rather long story.

Newt: Sure

Newt: You worried the shit out of me

Aziraphale: I know. I’m sorry.

Aziraphale: I promise I’ll tell you everything you want to know.

Newt: You don’t have to do that

Aziraphale: I know I don’t.

Aziraphale: I want to.

Aziraphale: You’re a good friend to me.

Newt: So are you. You’re probably my best friend

Newt: That I’m not shagging

Newt: Not that I want to

Newt: This isn’t coming out very well

Aziraphale: 😂😂😂😂😂

Aziraphale: Point made, and the sentiment is returned.

\--

Aziraphale bounced into work the next day with a smile so bright it probably could have been seen from space. He’d fallen asleep texting Crowley the night before and woken up to more texts in the morning, full of kisses and hearts and sweet words that made Aziraphale go gooey inside. Now he understood the ridiculous look that appeared on Newt’s face when he got a text from Anathema.

“Well, this is a change,” Newt said wryly an hour in, as he watched Aziraphale unpack the new shipment of books.

Aziraphale stopped humming and looked at him. “What?”

“You’ve been walking around since Monday like you had concrete blocks tied to your feet, and today somebody changed them out with balloons.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked away, blushing.

“I know you’re not going to tell me why until later, so I’ll leave it,” Newt said. He looked up at the owner’s office, double checking, but She was gone. Newt turned back around and pulled out his phone. “So, I saw something weird on my way in earlier. You know how She has that rented parking space for Her Cadillac?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes in lieu of answering. There were always plenty of parking spaces open near the bookshop and therefore there was no need to rent one, but the owner had one anyway. He suspected She just liked getting people towed. And having a little sign that said Reserved over Her special spot.

Newt laughed at his expression and went on. “So there was a car there this morning, but it had one of those canvas covers over it. And I was curious, so I went over and had a look underneath.”

“And?”

“It was Her car all right,” Newt said, grinning. “With some…extra décor.” He pulled up a picture on his phone and showed it to Aziraphale with a flourish.

It was the back of the white Cadillac, but you could barely tell, because every inch of it (minus the license plate) was covered in bumper stickers. Aziraphale’s jaw dropped.

_Honk and I’ll strip!_

_Save water, drink beer_

_420 Blaze It_

_HAIL SATAN_

_If you’re going to ride my arse, at least pull my hair_

_I’m speeding because I need a poo!_

There were more, but he tore his eyes away to gawk at Newt. “What the—who—why?”

“I don’t know,” Newt said gleefully. “But it’s got to be a prank. It’s not like She would put them on Herself and then cover them up.”

They pored over the picture for a few more minutes, sniggering like children, then startled at the sound of the bell over the door and scurried back to their respective tasks. Aziraphale was still laughing to himself as he unboxed the last of the books. He wasn’t normally the type to take pleasure in the pain of others, but imagining the near-aneurysm She must have had when She saw Her car like that was just too funny. Imagining Her trying to scrape the stickers off and failing was just as good. The pranksters must have glued the stickers on or something so She couldn’t take them off without taking the paint off, too. It really was very unkind of him to laugh, but he wasn’t feeling very sympathetic after Her harsh words on Monday.

He paused and set down the box cutter, a sneaking suspicion forming in his mind. Had they…? No, surely they were too young to pull that off. Or were they? And if they had, would they admit it? No, probably not. No point in dwelling on it. He picked up the box cutter again, smiling and shaking his head.

The day passed by relatively quickly until Newt left. Having no one to talk to, Aziraphale puttered around, re-tidying already neat displays and ringing up the occasional customer. There were usually lots of people in the shop at night, and tonight was no exception. Most of them just sat quietly and read, however. Ordinarily he found this peaceful, but anticipation for later was eating at him.

He was standing idly at the register, having an imaginary conversation in his head, when the Them came in to hang out in the loft as was their habit. Aziraphale watched them head for the stairs, a half-smile on his face.

“Hello, Them,” he said as they passed the register.

“Hello, Mr. A,” Adam said, flashing that winning smile of his.

“Hold on a moment,” Aziraphale said, on impulse. They stopped and stared at him. He studied them for a moment. Brian and Wensleydale looked at their shoes, but Pepper and Adam met his gaze with beatific innocence.

“What’s up, Mr. A?” Pepper asked, all wide eyes and ignorance.

He glanced up at the office out of habit, then looked back at them. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

There was a tense moment where he thought they would keep up the charade, but then Adam and Pepper exchanged a glance. Adam gave Pepper a tiny nod. She blinked back, looked at Aziraphale, and grinned evilly.

“You’re welcome.”

Aziraphale’s face split into an answering grin. “That’s all," he told them matter-of-factly. "About an hour ‘til close, and mind you don’t hold me up.”

They rolled their eyes and continued towards the stairs. Aziraphale watched them go, a warm glow of affection blooming in his chest. He began to hum _Ode to Joy_ again—it had been stuck in his head since the night before—then turned on his heel and contemplated the children’s section. It really could use a bit of straightening up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thank you to all those who left comments last week telling me they loved the chapter and that I'm right to leave my job; you're all the real MVP and I promise I'll answer all your comments when I wake up <3 Here is a nice soft happy chapter to make up for all I've put you through. Hope you like it! 
> 
> (Psst! If you're American, don't forget to vote tomorrow!)


	17. Crowley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations.

The record shop had a live music event that Saturday, so Anathema was scheduled to work until close that night. Crowley drove her to work, like he always did when they shared a shift, but the noise and the volume of customers meant that they didn’t have much chance to talk during the day. This was a good thing. Anathema knew he’d fixed things between them thanks to Newt, and that was it. During the drive to work, Crowley had confirmed that everything was all right and hinted that she’d hear the whole story when they saw Aziraphale on Saturday night. Aziraphale hadn’t said as much, but Crowley could tell he wanted to have a big reveal with everyone there. 

As the day dragged by, Crowley may or may not have walked by the bookshop a few times during his breaks in order to catch sight of Aziraphale through the window. The glass no longer felt like an impenetrable barrier, though, more like a showcase for the most beautiful person in the world. Aziraphale had dressed to the nines that morning—crisp white shirt, tartan bowtie, polished oxfords, tweed waistcoat, and the usual perfectly pressed tan slacks. He looked so happy, even when he was dusting or talking to the owner of the bookshop. Crowley gazed to his heart’s content, making sure Aziraphale didn’t see him. As nice as it would have been to direct those smiles towards himself, Aziraphale couldn’t hide his emotions for shit, and Newt was bound to notice if Aziraphale started waving and blushing like a maiden at a jousting tournament.

He could feel Anathema’s eyes following him when he came back each time, grinning and swaggering like he’d just won the lottery. When the last few people milled out at the end of the day, her curiosity was so thick in the air he decided to take pity on her.

“You’re going to hear everything once Newt gets here,” he called out as he locked the front doors.

Her fingers, which had been drumming on the counter like rain on a tin roof, stopped mid-tap.

“He won’t be here for twenty more minutes, and we’ll be done closing in half that. We always close up faster together.”

“What did you think of that last band?” Crowley said cheerfully. “I thought every song they did sounded like pretentious noise, how about you?”

Anathema laughed. “Same. Did you see the way the lead singer kept cradling the mic like he was posing for an album cover?”

Crowley had, and for the next ten minutes they happily nitpicked all the groups that had come in to perform over the course of the day. Some were good, but most weren’t. Not that Crowley really cared; you couldn’t expect a bunch of amateurs to do just as well as the professionals anyhow. It was fun to make fun of the ones that thought they were good and weren’t, though. In what felt like no time at all, the bins were emptied, the till counted, and the store straightened and swept.

“Is it killing you?” Crowley said when the conversation hit a lull. They were standing next to the bank of light switches, all but one of which he flicked off as Anathema watched. She kept fidgeting and shuffling back and forth, and her fingers were drumming on the wall again.

“Of course it is!” she snapped. “I deserve a medal for all the holding back I’ve been doing.”

Crowley leaned against the wall, crossed his arms, and smirked. “Sorry.”

“No you’re not. Liar.”

“I am! I just don’t want to…deny him his moment.”

Anathema’s eyes, which had been piercing and hard, went soft in an instant. Before Crowley could react, she threw her arms around him in a tight hug, pinning his arms to his sides.

“I know it’s illegal for British people to hug each other or something, but I’m American, so I’m going to do it anyway,” she said into his t-shirt. “I’m so happy for you.”

Crowley wiggled his arms out from under hers and squeezed her back. “If I were to deny you a hug after all you’ve done for the two of us, I’d deserve to go straight to hell.”

Anathema let go. Her eyes looked suspiciously wet, but she blinked it away and smiled up at him.

“He must be so happy.”

Crowley couldn’t help the answering smile spreading across his face. “Yeah, I think so.”

\--

They stayed in the record shop until Newt texted Anathema that he’d arrived. Newt and Aziraphale were waiting outside when they got to the bookshop, giggling at something on Newt’s phone. Crowley’s heart lifted when Aziraphale looked up and caught his eye. They smiled stupidly at each other for a second before he remembered that he was supposed to be playing it cool. He heard Anathema snort, which he refused to dignify by looking at her. The four of them decided on Indian and headed over.

“All right, Aziraphale, let’s have it,” Newt said as soon as they finished ordering. “I’ve done my time. Please, for God’s sake, tell me what’s been going on.”

Aziraphale bounced a little and beamed. Crowley longed to grab and squeeze him. He was too cute to be real.

“Do you remember when I told you that I would let you know if I found someone I was interested in?” Aziraphale asked Newt coyly.

Newt scratched his hand and squinted. “Uh, yeah.”

“Well, I did,” Aziraphale announced. He reached for Crowley’s hand, clasped it into both of his own, and placed them on top of the table. Crowley’s stomach did a little jig. “Right here.”

Newt looked back and forth between the two of them. Crowley’s stomach was now doing all sorts of calisthenics. He looked resolutely at Aziraphale, stroking his hand and trying desperately to maintain a poker face.

“Okay, back up,” Newt said finally. “How long has this been going on, why didn’t you tell me, and what does this have to do with you being so depressed last week?”

Crowley replaced the hand Aziraphale was holding with the opposite one and reached over to rub Aziraphale’s back. “Tell him whatever you want, angel,” he murmured. At “angel,” Anathema gave a tiny happy noise and put her hands to her mouth. He rolled his eyes at her.

Aziraphale looked up at him and smiled. Crowley could have sworn he was shining from within.

“Thank you, darling,” he said. (Anathema made another, longer happy noise.) “Let’s do it together, shall we?”

He turned back to Newt. “Can you leave the questions until the end?”

Newt nodded, and Aziraphale began. He told Newt how he’d made a habit of staying in the bookshop well after closing to read, not realizing that he’d been noticed until Anathema gave him a small heart attack, and explained how he’d recognized Crowley upon meeting him, having seen him around but never broken the ice. Then he looked at Crowley, hesitant. “Would you like to cut in?”

Crowley groaned internally and closed his eyes. In a rambling mumble, he explained how he’d been trying to talk to Aziraphale for months and failing. “Used to, uh. See him through the window on the way in to work. Thought he looked, y’know…nice.”

Newt snickered. Crowley snapped his gaze up and fixed Newt in a glare. Aziraphale squeezed his hand a little harder than normal and went on.

“It turned out that we were both interested but not sure about the other’s feelings, so neither of us brought it up. I think it probably would have gone on that way forever if the two of you hadn’t left us alone last weekend.”

The next few minutes were some of the most uncomfortable of Crowley’s life. Aziraphale described the kiss and its aftermath with as much humor as he could, but neither Newt nor Anathema laughed. Newt shifted his gaze to Crowley as soon as Aziraphale confessed what he’d thought the purpose of the kiss was, and the look on his face made Crowley shiver. It was not the kind of expression he associated with Newt—it was a cold, hard stare that made him feel like an insect pinned to a board.

When Aziraphale paused to take a gulp of water, Anathema cut in. “I think I can add something here. I don’t know if he told you this, Aziraphale, but he showed up for work on Wednesday looking like roadkill, with the worst hangover I’ve ever seen. From being drunk for three days straight. And then, when I told him you weren’t coming on Saturday, he completely lost it right there in the middle of the shop floor.”

“Thanks, ‘Nathema,” Crowley muttered, staring at the table. As sarcastic as it probably sounded, he meant it. It was humiliating to hear her say it out loud, but he knew why she’d done it. He took a deep breath and squeezed Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Go on, angel.”

Aziraphale gave him a long look. Mentally bookmarking that page for later, Crowley guessed. He looked away, and so did Aziraphale after another second or two. Aziraphale thanked Anathema and apologized to Newt for keeping him in the dark, explaining that he’d not wanted to ruin things between the three of them if possible. Newt muttered something under his breath in response to that, which he refused to repeat. Crowley was glad; he didn’t want to know.

Then Aziraphale got to Friday, and Crowley still burned with embarrassment, but the worst was over. Aziraphale glossed over the part where they went upstairs and ended on his going home. When he declared himself done, Anathema was grinning.

“And I suppose you just hung out together for the rest of the day?”

“Yes, just like the two of you did last Saturday at the concert,” Aziraphale shot back. Anathema went pink. “But anyhow. That’s it, Newt.”

Newt looked at the ceiling and blew out his breath. He turned to Anathema. “You knew,” he said accusingly. “And you didn’t tell me!”

“It wasn’t mine to tell!” Anathema cried. “Don’t look at me like that, I’ve been trying to get this dumbass,” she said, jerking her head at Crowley, “to get it all out in the open for fucking ever.”

“Oh, all right,” Newt said, pecking her on the cheek. Then he turned his attention to Crowley. “You,” he said.

“What,” Crowley muttered.

“You have been giving me endless shite for months about being an awkward sod, that’s what,” Newt said, pointing an accusatory finger at him.

“Well, you _were_.”

“I didn’t have to get blind drunk just to—”

“That’s enough,” Aziraphale said before he could finish. “It all turned out fine in the end, didn’t it?” He smiled at Anathema. “I don’t think I’ve congratulated the two of you yet, my dear.”

Anathema beamed back. Aziraphale asked her about her date with Newt, and they fell into happy conversation. Newt waited until they were oblivious to everything around them, then turned back to Crowley with a tight scowl.

“You _filthy_ hypocrite.”

“Okay, fine, sorry,” Crowley hissed. “You did everything right, and I did it all wrong and fucked myself over. Happy?”

Newt’s scowl dropped away, and his shoulders fell. “No, I…you just…”

Crowley sighed. “I was a right arsehole, yeah. You’re right to be pissed off.”

Newt didn’t respond, but he looked gratified anyway. The two of them sat in silence for another minute, listening to Aziraphale and Anathema chatter happily about date ideas. All Crowley could think of was how incredibly fond he was of them both, and when Newt finally spoke, it was clear that he was having the very same thoughts.

“They were good wingmen, weren’t they?”

Crowley met his gaze and smiled. “The best.”

\--

Two hours later, Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand as they walked to his car and swung it back and forth. He breathed the night air in, feeling wonderfully light and free. Everything he had to dread was over: the truth was out in the open, he was holding hands with the very best person in the world, and there was still one more day left of the weekend. He pulled Aziraphale close with his other hand and spun him around. Aziraphale stumbled, but Crowley caught him, held him, dipped him a little.

“I’m afraid I can’t dance, darling,” Aziraphale said, laughing as Crowley pulled him back up. “Well…not entirely true. But I’m not good at it.”

Crowley pressed him for details, but he refused. Guessing took them all the way to the car. Before he went over to his own side, Crowley leaned over and stole a kiss.

“Mm! Oh, you—"

Crowley grinned and kissed him again, backing Aziraphale up until his back rested against the car. He wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s neck and pressed against him without heat or urgency, simply enjoying the giving softness of him. Warmth soaked through their clothes, leaving Crowley’s back cold but his front toasty warm.

A minute later, Aziraphale broke away from the kiss and looked up at him, a smile spreading across his sweet round face. Crowley sighed with pleasure and tilted his head forward until their foreheads touched. They stayed like that for a long time. Crowley could have stood there forever, ignoring his cold backside and aching feet.

“So,” Aziraphale said finally. He cleared his throat and went on. “I asked Tracy what her policy was on overnight guests this morning. I, ah, never needed to know before.”

Crowley kissed the mortification away. “And?” he said, in between pecks to Aziraphale’s forehead and cheeks.

“Mmm. I like that. Oh, she said it’s fine, as long as we don’t walk through any of her readings. Or, um. Make a lot of noise.”

Crowley snickered. “Tell her to get some earplugs.”

Aziraphale gasped indignantly. “It’s her house! The nerve—”

“Calm down, angel. We’ll just have you scream into a pillow.” He grinned as Aziraphale’s face scrunched in embarrassment again and kissed his nose. “Does that mean I can spend the night?”

Aziraphale pulled his face away a little so he could look into Crowley’s eyes. The little crinkles around his eyes came out as he smiled. “Of course, darling. Shall we go get you some clothes and go home?”

A frisson of delight went through Crowley’s body. “Yes, please.” He pressed one last kiss to Aziraphale’s forehead and squeezed him again.

“Let’s go home, angel.”

\--

The drive to and from Crowley’s flat was an experiment in irritating Aziraphale. Crowley drove alternately at his usual breakneck speed and a snail’s pace, switching whenever his passenger complained. It was great fun until Aziraphale threatened to lock him out of Tracy’s house and go to bed without him. He was fairly sure Aziraphale wasn’t serious, but sleeping together wasn’t something Crowley was willing to risk losing out on, even for one night, so he drove normally after that.

When they got upstairs, Crowley was all ready to flop down on the bed fully-clothed and kiss Aziraphale breathless, but Aziraphale insisted they get ready for bed first lest they get too comfortable and not want to get back up again.

“Fine,” Crowley grumbled as he dug his toothbrush out of his bag. “Have it your way.”

“I will, thank you.”

As Crowley brushed his teeth alone, it occurred to him that Aziraphale had likely not followed him into the bathroom on purpose, so he could change unseen. He sighed. _Two steps forward, one step back._

His disappointment at not getting to see Aziraphale naked soon vanished, however, when he returned to the bedroom and found Aziraphale in a matching set of blue silk pyjamas with white piping. He looked Aziraphale up and down with delight, his mouth dropping open as he took in this new level of adorableness.

“Angel, are those _monogrammed_?”

“Maybe,” Aziraphale muttered, crossing his arms over his chest and heading for the door. “It’s stupid, I know.”

Crowley kissed him as he went by. “No, it isn’t. It’s great. I want my own set for my birthday.”

Aziraphale giggled. “In black, I assume.”

“Well, yeah. What else?”

In another few minutes, Aziraphale was back, and the two of them climbed into bed like they’d done it a million times before instead of just once. Crowley was now in joggers and a stretched-out old t-shirt, and feeling rather underdressed next to Aziraphale. The level of effort and care he put into his clothes really was impressive.

“I really like the way you dress,” he whispered into Aziraphale’s ear. They were face-to-face this time, their legs all tangled together and foreheads pressed close. “I was checking you out through the window today,” he continued. “Again. Hope you don’t mind.”

Aziraphale squeezed his hand and kissed him. “Why would I mind, darling? I’m flattered.”

“Good. Eh, I don’t know. Just felt pathetic and creepy, before.”

“You were always planning to talk to me, weren’t you?” Aziraphale said, stroking his hair away from his face. “And you didn’t follow me home or take pictures through my window. Unless there’s something you’d like to tell me?”

“No,” Crowley growled. “Course I was going to talk to you. Just took me a while.”

“Then don’t worry about it, dear heart. You’re the first person to ever show much interest in looking at me, you know. It’s rather strange, but I do like it.”

Crowley rolled onto his back and pulled Aziraphale flush up against him. Aziraphale curled up close and laid his head on Crowley’s chest, right in the middle of the Queen logo on his worn t-shirt. Crowley cradled it in his arms, stroking Aziraphale’s curls with one hand and his back with the other.

“Don’t know why. You’re beautiful. Don’t argue with me; you are, and that’s all there is to it.”

“Okay,” Aziraphale said, yawning and wiggling further into his arms. His soft chest and belly pressed deliciously into Crowley’s side. “You’re so nice.”

“No I’m—”

“Ah, ah,” Aziraphale said with a smile in his voice. “I thought we weren’t going to argue?”

“Oh, fine. Bastard.”

Aziraphale giggled, snuggled closer, and yawned again. Over the next few minutes, his free hand, which had been stroking up and down Crowley’s ribs, slowed, stilled, and went slack. Crowley continued to stroke his hair, hardly daring to breathe as Aziraphale went limp and quiet against him. He doubted he would be able to fall asleep this way, but if Aziraphale wanted to sleep with his head on Crowley’s bony chest then Crowley was damn well going to let him. His heart was swelling with more happiness than he’d ever thought himself capable.

“I love you,” he whispered into the dark. “I’m not going to tell you when you’re awake yet, because it’s too early, and I don’t want to go too fast for you. I want you to come to it on your own, if you ever do. But until then, while you’re asleep…I love you, angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost done! Only the epilogue left now. I haven't got a draft of it pre-written like the rest of this, so it will likely take me a couple of weeks. If you have preferences as to whose perspective you'd like it to be from, go ahead and tell me in the comments! I'd love to hear from you :)


	18. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One happy ending, as promised :) 
> 
> (See endnotes for content warnings)

_Aziraphale_

“’Ziraphale.”

“Hmm?”

“Can I get your opinion on something?”

Aziraphale cocked his head at Newt and took a sip of his cocoa. It was a blustery April afternoon, and they were tucked away in the small, well-heated coffee shop down the street from the bookshop, where Aziraphale still worked. Newt didn’t—he’d found a paid internship and jumped ship at the beginning of the new school year—but they still made time to meet up and talk, just the two of them.

“You know you can,” he said. “What’s on your mind, my dear?”

Newt fidgeted. “I want to tell Anathema…you know. The thing.”

“The thing.”

“The thing, you know…the three words.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, understanding. “And?”

“And I want to know what you think my chances are of hearing it back,” Newt mumbled, stirring his already well-stirred coffee.

Aziraphale studied the design on Newt’s t-shirt. He thought it very plain that Anathema loved Newt, although he could hardly fault Newt for not seeing it when he himself was so awful at noticing that kind of thing. But he also knew that there was a reason why Anathema hadn’t said so, and that complicated the situation.

Over the course of the past year, Anathema’s family had become very insistent that she come back home for her gap year and graduate school. They obviously considered her time in Tadfield to be a fun little jaunt, to give her a taste of the world before she settled down somewhere within easy driving distance. Anathema was not at all interested in doing that, to put it mildly, but she was having a great deal of trouble talking them round. California loomed in her future, for the next year or even longer.

But Aziraphale wasn’t supposed to know any of this. He’d heard it all from Crowley, who’d sworn him to secrecy until Anathema told Newt herself. She was worried, Crowley said, that it would poison their remaining time together, and that Newt might even give her up as a hopeless case when he found out what was happening. Aziraphale thought this was nonsense, but a promise was a promise.

“Well, there’s no reason why you have to say it first, if you’re so worried,” he said instead. “Just keep showing her that you do, and maybe she’ll say it in her own time.”

Newt slumped in his chair. “That’s not an answer.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I don’t know, Newt. I really don’t. What makes you think I’m the expert on these things?”

“Haven’t you said it?” Newt said, unslumping a little. “Figured you had by now.”

“No,” Aziraphale said, squirming. “We haven’t.”

“But you do, don’t you? You love him.”

Aziraphale squirmed more, and looked away.

“Yeah, I knew you did. Why haven’t you said it, then?”

“Newt, I really don’t want—”

“Is it because you don’t think he’ll say it back? That’s a load of shit. He’s head over heels for you.”

“You don’t—”

“I do too. When you say jump, he says how high. C’mon, Aziraphale.”

“Newt,” Aziraphale snapped. “Can you drop it, please?”

Newt drooped. “All right. Fine.”

They sat for a moment in silence, looking anywhere but at each other. Aziraphale was just starting to feel bad about cutting him off when suddenly Newt piped back up.

“I take it back. One last thing—when you pull your head out of your arse and finally say it, make sure it’s not while he’s driving. He’ll crash, you’ll get into a flaming wreck, and the first thing out of my mouth when I visit you in hospital will be ‘I told you so.’”

In spite of himself, Aziraphale laughed.

“Duly noted.”

\--

Despite his protestations to the contrary, Aziraphale knew Newt was right. Crowley had been saying _I love you_ from the beginning, only with actions instead of words. Realizing it had been a case of a million little things coming together, like drops of rain swelling a river.

Crowley’s gentleness on their first day together.

Crowley running himself ragged trying to find a job in Tadfield so they could stay close to one another.

Crowley asking him what all his favorite foods were and learning how to cook them.

Crowley going completely to pieces after their first real argument, assuming they were finished forever.

Crowley growing his hair out even longer just because Aziraphale said he liked it.

Crowley buying a whole new outfit just to meet his family.

The list went on and on. None of those things had tipped Aziraphale over the edge, though. In the end, what had finally done it was a new set of little red lines on Aziraphale’s hips. Aziraphale had noticed them when they were changing for bed one night, walked to the bathroom scale like a man going to the guillotine, and promptly melted down when he saw the number on the screen. Crowley had found him in there twenty minutes later, still not coherent enough to talk.

But when Aziraphale had finally managed to choke out what was wrong, Crowley hadn’t been repulsed. He’d been…excited. Because it was normal, apparently, to gain weight after being a relationship for a while. It was a sign of happiness, of contentment. From there, they’d gone from Crowley holding him while he sobbed, to Crowley kissing all the new stretch marks one by one, to them furiously making out and having some of their best sex to date.

_Oh_ , he’d thought the next morning, when he was able to form coherent thoughts again. _Oh._

When the flood of revelations had spun itself out, Aziraphale’s heart was full, and he was sure of two things: that he loved Crowley, and that Crowley loved him. He would have said it right then if Crowley hadn’t been snoring blissfully away on his chest.

Instead, he’d laid there quietly, thinking to himself. He’d already been accepted into the programme he wanted at University College London at that point, and it was looking like they would have to do long distance, despite Crowley’s efforts to find something nearby. Crowley’s job at Tadfield’s little nursery was a good one; it would be silly for him to quit unless he could find something just as good or better.

Where would their relationship be after being separated for years? Aziraphale knew that distance could just as easily break a relationship as make it stronger. Wouldn’t confessing their love make it all hurt worse if everything fell apart? Was that why Crowley hadn’t said anything?

He didn’t know.

What he did know was that he was not letting go of Crowley until Crowley pried his fingers off one by one. And until that happened, he was going to enjoy every second he had left.

\--

“You really like going on walks, don’t you?” Crowley said one Thursday evening, a few days before their first anniversary. They were on a lovely stroll through the park, their third of the week. Aziraphale was usually the one who suggested them, it was true, but Crowley liked them too, didn’t he? The park was a big one, full of winding paths and lots of trees for privacy. What wasn’t there to like?

He gave Crowley a worried glance. “What’s wrong with walks?”

“Nothing,” Crowley said, squeezing his hand. “Never really did it with anyone else, that’s all. S’very old-fashioned. D’you want me to take you riding in my carriage and stand up with you at the ball, too?”

Aziraphale smiled. He pictured Crowley in a dashing dark suit, red hair short and artfully tousled, courting him as ardently as the mores of the time allowed. What a lovely slow simmer of a romance that would have been, if it had been permitted back then. Would it be worth giving up long-haired Crowley in tight trousers and sleeveless shirts? Probably not. But it was delicious to imagine.

He straightened his back and moved his hand up to Crowley’s elbow.

“Perhaps, Mr. Crowley,” he said primly. “But not too often, or people will talk.”

Crowley groaned. “Aw, c’mon. Like I’d care what the bloody neighbors think.”

Aziraphale let out a delicate gasp. “Why, Mr. Crowley, how lightly you would treat my reputation! The scandal!”

Crowley stopped dead all of a sudden, grabbed Aziraphale’s other arm, and pulled him in for a messy kiss. Aziraphale could hardly kiss him back for laughing.

“Ack! Oh stop, stop, what if someone should see?”

“Then they’d know you’re mine,” Crowley said, moving his kisses to Aziraphale’s cheek. “Mine, mine, mine…”

_Of course I’m yours_ , Aziraphale thought. _Yours, yours, yours_ . He closed his eyes and tilted his head back so Crowley could finish kissing his face. Nose, forehead, other cheek, temple— _wait, what was that?_

Crowley must have heard the footsteps too, because he stopped mid-kiss and stepped away. Nobody had ever been rude to them as they walked around Tadfield hand-in-hand, but older people did gawk sometimes. Aziraphale could never tell whether it was disapproval or sheer astonishment, and he was not particularly keen on finding out. He straightened his collar and wiped his mouth, already preparing to mutter a hasty greeting and rush on by.

But when he saw who it was, the words died in his mouth, and he waved instead.

“Oh! Hello, Gabriel!”

Gabriel looked as though he’d just found a hundred-pound note on the ground. He greeted Aziraphale like he hadn’t seen him in fifty years and quickened his pace, towing a small dark-haired person behind him. Aziraphale smiled wider and bounced on the spot. This must be Gabriel’s spouse! It would be so nice to meet them after hearing about them for so long.

He turned to Crowley, his mouth already opening in explanation, but the sight of Crowley’s expression stopped him short. Aziraphale couldn’t tell if he was horrified or trying very hard not to laugh.

“What…?”

“Shhh,” Crowley hissed. “Tell you later.”

Aziraphale would have liked to argue, but a few seconds later Gabriel and his spouse had reached them, and the chance was lost. As soon as he was within arm’s reach, Gabriel grabbed Crowley’s hand and began pumping it in an enthusiastic handshake.

“You must be Anthony Crowley! So great to meet you, I’ve heard so much about you. Don’t know if ‘Ziraphale’s told you about me? I’m Gabriel, and this is my spouse—”

“No need,” Gabriel’s spouse said, in a resigned sort of way, before he could finish his sentence. “Hey, Crowley.”

“Uh. Nice to meet you, too. Hey, Bee,” Crowley said, shaking Gabriel’s hand once before carefully disentangling himself. “Aziraphale, this is…my boss.”

Aziraphale’s mouth dropped open, as did Gabriel’s. The next few minutes were a flurry of introductions and exclamations (mostly from Gabriel) about what a small world it was. Gabriel looked positively overjoyed, Crowley amused, and Bee (short for Beatrice? No, they didn’t really look like a Beatrice) rather embarrassed. Aziraphale surmised that they preferred to keep their work and home lives separate and tried to signal to Crowley that they ought to make their excuses and leave, but Crowley, uncharacteristically, ignored him in favor of striking up a conversation with Gabriel.

“And how did you meet?” Crowley said when he finally managed to get a word in edgewise. Gabriel was talking a lot as usual, although Aziraphale noticed that he always stopped whenever Bee tugged on his hand.

“Uni,” Bee said before Gabriel could answer. “Nothing special.”

Gabriel looked hurt. Bee winced. “I didn’t mean it like—it wasn’t—y’know, not a movie meet-cute or something—”

“Well, not when you tell it like that!” Gabriel said merrily, beaming again. He turned to Crowley, who looked as though all his dreams were coming true. “It was October of 1991, and I had just started my year abroad…”

Aziraphale looked at Bee, wondering if he should suddenly remember that he’d left the oven on and drag Crowley off. They still looked embarrassed, but the mortification was now mixed with the kind of fondness Aziraphale sometimes saw on his mother’s face, when his father found a new audience to tell one of his favorite stories for the ninety-fifth time.

_Well, all right, then_ , Aziraphale thought. He took Crowley’s hand again, shifted a little bit closer, and smiled up at him. _There are worse ways to spend an hour or two._

\--

“Christ,” Crowley said an hour and forty-five minutes later, stretching his stiff legs out as they walked. “I think I’ve figured out why Bee doesn’t introduce him to people.”

“Oh, _have_ you now. And why do you think that is?”

Crowley glared at him. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew _exactly_ how long we were going to get stuck there.”

Aziraphale giggled and swung their hands back and forth. Crowley snorted.

“Whatever. Still worth it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Hastur and Ligur’ve been trying to figure out who’s Bee’s married to for years,” Crowley said gleefully. “They told me when I started working there that Bee just showed up to work one day wearing a wedding ring, so they asked who the lucky person was, as you do, and Bee wouldn’t say. Told ‘em it wasn’t any of their business. Can’t wait to go in on Monday and—”

“—not say a word, because they obviously don’t like talking about their personal life,” Aziraphale said sternly. “Is that why you got Gabriel to tell you the story, so you could tell it to your colleagues behind their back?”

“Not behind their back,” Crowley mumbled. “Was gonna do it with them in the room. M’not _that_ much of an arsehole.”

Aziraphale threw him a scathing look. “It would be unkind either way. I can’t stop you, but if I find out you’ve done it, I’ll be very unhappy.”

“Fine,” Crowley snapped. “Have it your way.”

Aziraphale did not reply. He knew that if he did, a pointless argument would start that might waste several more of their precious hours together. They walked towards Crowley’s house in silence—Crowley stewing, Aziraphale waiting. It was usually better to wait.

“Don’t see what reason they have to be ashamed,” Crowley said abruptly ten minutes later, as they turned the corner onto his street. “Yeah, he talks a lot, but he’s a nice bloke. And he moved continents to be with them, for fuck’s sake.”

“I don’t think shame has anything—”

“All I’m saying,” Crowley said loudly over him, “is that I wouldn’t hide someone like that, if it were me. If someone makes that much of an effort to be with you, you ought to show ‘em that you’re grateful.”

Aziraphale sighed. He stayed quiet as they headed up the front walk and waited patiently for Crowley to unlock the front door. When they were inside, he took off his shoes, took Crowley by the hand, and pulled him towards the bedroom. Some things were better said while cuddling.

“Sorry,” Crowley mumbled as they laid down on his skinny twin bed. “I’ll shut up. I know I’m being stupid.”

“No, my dear, you’re not,” Aziraphale murmured. “I’d have to be a complete idiot not to see why you’re upset. You’re worried about how next year will go, aren’t you?”

Crowley said nothing, only tightened his arm around Aziraphale’s belly. That was all the confirmation Aziraphale needed to know that he’d hit the nail on the head. He took a deep breath.

“I know we haven’t really talked about it, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been thinking, and I can tell you right now that I’m not planning on breaking it off when I leave Tadfield. Whether you come with me to London or not. And if it's all right with you, I’d like nothing more than to irritate everyone I meet by talking endlessly about my wonderful, handsome boyfriend whom I miss very, very much.” 

Crowley let out a long, shuddering breath Aziraphale hadn’t realized he’d been holding and squirmed closer. Aziraphale’s heart squeezed in his chest.

_He loves me. He wants to keep loving me even when we’re apart. I could tell him I love him right now, and he would say it back. What am I waiting for?_

He opened his mouth.

“I…”

“Hm?”

_No, wait! No, no, no_. Now wasn’t the right time. It would look forced—Crowley might worry that he’d been guilted into saying it.

“…hope you won’t worry about it anymore,” he finished awkwardly. “I know it won’t be easy, but we’re both willing to put in the work, aren’t we?”

“’Course,” Crowley grumbled into his hair. “What kind of a question is that?”

“Just checking,” Aziraphale said, kissing the closest bit of him he could reach. “No more silly questions from here on out. I remember you said that you had a few things you needed to do before we go back to Tracy’s; shall I leave you to them?”

“Mmm…in a few minutes.”

Aziraphale smiled. He needed no convincing to stay where he was. Late afternoon sunlight was streaming in through the only window, warming the bed and lighting up Crowley’s brilliant coppery hair. In an hour or so, the sun would dip too low for the light to reach over the trees lining the street, and the room would be bathed in the soft gray shadows of evening. They would get up before then.

Crowley shifted and flipped his waist-length hair (goodness, was it really that long now?) out from under his shoulder. Aziraphale, who had returned to his worries about wording and timing, took a lock of it in his left hand, the one that wasn’t currently trapped under Crowley’s ribcage. Absently, he wove it through his fingers, then began to pull it out, so slowly that it seemed to flow through his hands like honey.

Under his thumb it went, over the index, under the middle…

He paused. Why was he worrying about when to tell Crowley how he felt, when the perfect opportunity was only days away? Crowley had planned a lovely anniversary dinner for the two of them, although he wouldn’t say where. Aziraphale could tell him then, or perhaps after, when they were alone together.

His worries thus assuaged, Aziraphale pulled Crowley’s hair the rest of the way out of his fingers and tilted his head back to look at him. The appreciation he’d always felt for Crowley’s person had not dimmed over the almost-year they’d spent together, but it had changed, certainly. Aziraphale no longer looked with comparison in his eyes and self-hatred in his heart. He simply admired and made his admiration known, which seemed to be all Crowley had ever wanted.

He stayed that way, quietly appreciating Crowley in the fading light, until the subject of his appreciation felt his gaze and looked up at him with one pretty golden eye.

“Wht’chu lookin’ at?”

“My boyfriend,” Aziraphale said, smiling. “He’s very handsome, you see.”

Crowley closed his eye and squeezed him again, with both his arm and his leg this time.

“Course he is,” Crowley mumbled into the pillow. “Gotta be, otherwise you’d be way outta his league. Lucky bastard, your boyfriend.”

Oh, it was even harder not to say it now. Aziraphale kissed the top of Crowley’s head.

“Yes, dearest. But not half so lucky as me.”

_Crowley_

“Yeah, that’s plenty of time. Definitely. Really appreciate it. Thank you again for the offer. Bye.”

With deep relief, Crowley pressed the “end call” button and tossed his mobile onto the bed. For a moment, he stayed leaning against the wall of his bedroom, staring sightlessly out the window. Then he staggered over to the bed and collapsed onto it face-first, not even caring that his mobile was now digging uncomfortably into his side.

It was late morning on Friday, his regular day off. The call he’d just ended was from someone that, a week or even a day ago, he would have been ecstatic to hear from. For the last few months, he’d been applying to every job he could find within commuting distance of University College London. Three-quarters of them weren’t even in his field, but he’d still not managed to find anything that would pay him enough to be able to both eat and have a roof over his head. He’d turned down several offers already, with varying degrees of regret.

The position he’d just been offered, however, wasn’t just in his field—it was at the Royal Botanical Gardens in London, the place he’d been dreaming of working since he’d visited on a primary school day trip over a decade ago. He’d applied for the job months ago, not imagining in a million years that he’d even get a call back, let alone an interview. And now an offer! An offer for a part-time position that didn’t pay anywhere near enough, but still. An offer.

He hadn’t been able to bring himself to turn it down on the spot. There was a small, stupidly hopeful part of him that thought he’d be able to figure out some way to afford it in the next three days, before he had to give the hiring manager a definite answer. Maybe he could find another part-time job, an affordable flat, a few flatmates…

Or he could win the lottery. Crowley groaned into his pillow. He laid there for a few more minutes, feeling sorry for himself. Then he remembered that there was someone he could talk to who would probably have something intelligent to say. He dug out his mobile.

Crowley: Hey

Crowley: Got a minute?

Anathema: In a sec

Anathema: Ok, what’s up?

Crowley: Got a call from Kew

Crowley: They offered me the job I interviewed for a couple weeks ago

Anathema: OMG THAT’S AMAZING

Crowley: the part-time one, that I can’t afford to take unless I have something else on the side

Anathema: oh. shit

Anathema: what are you going to do

Crowley: Dunno yet

Crowley: Asked them if they could let me think about it for a few days

Crowley: Don’t think I’ll be able to come up with a way to do it though

Anathema: I’m so sorry

Anathema: Have you told Aziraphale yet?

Crowley: No

Crowley: No point building him up just to disappoint him later

Anathema: understandable

Anathema: but if you turn it down w/out telling him and he finds out later, he’s not going to be happy

Anathema: just sayin

Crowley: …yeah

Crowley: What would you do if you were me

Crowley: you’re the clever one

Anathema: Screenshotting this for posterity 😂

Anathema: I really don’t know though

Anathema: If I was actually as omnipotent as you think I am, I’d know what to do about my own problems

Crowley: have you told Newt yet? I know I said I’d quit ragging on you, but...

Anathema: I’m GOING to

Anathema: I just…you know

Crowley: clock’s ticking though

Crowley: you know you’ll feel better after

Crowley: how many times do I have to tell you? If he’s worth it, he’ll get it.

Anathema: Ugh I KNOW it’s just HARD

Anathema: I know he’s going to be supportive, and sweet, and tell me that whatever I decide is fine, etc. etc.

Anathema: But it won’t fix anything and I’ll still feel like shit

Crowley: you’ll see him this weekend, right?

Anathema: yeah, why?

Crowley: how about this

Crowley: we both have to tell by Monday

Crowley: if either one of us doesn’t do it, drinks are on them for a month

Anathema: using my own tactics against me, nice 😂

Anathema: Fine. Deal.

Anathema: Don’t think I won’t cash in if you chicken out

Crowley laughed, replied in kind, and set his phone down on the bedside table. It would be fine, he told himself. He still had a good job, and Aziraphale had promised to try and make it work between the two of them even when they were living apart. Their problems were nothing to what Newt and Anathema’s might be.

He flipped over and sat up. Monday. He could figure out how to tell Aziraphale before Monday. Their anniversary was Saturday, so that was out—if the conversation went pear-shaped, it would ruin the whole thing. Sunday, then. They could make dinner together, and then he could take Aziraphale out for an evening walk and mention it when the time seemed right. He would just have to remember to call Kew on Monday with his answer.

He pulled open the single drawer in his tiny writing desk and began to dig around for a sticky note.

“Where did I put…aw, c’mon, I know I have…there it is.”

With a pen from the (completely unironic) World’s Best Boyfriend mug that Aziraphale had given him for his birthday, Crowley scribbled a note to himself, pulled it off the pad, and pinned it to the small corkboard next to his door. He did not worry in the least that Aziraphale might notice it. Aziraphale failed to notice a lot of things unless they were pointed out to him—not-yet-wrapped Christmas presents left out by accident, “push” and “pull” signs on doors, poles in the middle of the pavement, people who were not Crowley flirting with him. Crowley had never known someone who was simultaneously so intelligent and so oblivious.

Crowley sighed. God, he loved him so much. It was so hard not to say so, but he was still set on letting Aziraphale do it first. And they were getting there, weren’t they? You didn’t go around promising to do long-distance with just anybody. Maybe Aziraphale would say it before the summer was over.

He leaned over, grabbed his keys off the desk, and went out. Errands would take his mind off the future, especially the one he was running today. He needed to pick up the suit he’d rented for their anniversary dinner, and he’d have been lying if he said he wasn’t looking forward to seeing how he looked in it. Aziraphale seeing him in it would be even better, but he’d have to wait until tomorrow for that.

As he put on his shoes and headed out to the car, Crowley found that he had the urge to hum, something he only did when he was alone, and not often even then. So he did, and when he got into the car, he pulled out one of the many Queen CDs in his car, put it in, and pushed Skip until he got to the song he wanted. Only when Freddie Mercury’s voice was ringing through his speakers did Crowley start the car, singing loud enough to drown out all his thoughts and fears:

_I can dim the lights and sing you songs full of sad things_

_We can do the tango just for two_

_I can serenade and gently play on your heart strings_

_Be your Valentino just for you…_

\--

The rest of Friday passed away without any luck on Crowley’s part in finding either an additional part-time job or a cheap spot in a London flat. He went to bed depressed and trying his best to hide it. The situation seemed so hopeless that it would have seemed pointless to say anything, if not for the bargain with Anathema.

But Saturday was not a day for thinking about any of that. Saturday was for Aziraphale, and Aziraphale only. They had both managed to trade away their normal work shifts, so the whole day was theirs to spend together. Crowley woke up early in Aziraphale’s bed and attempted to sneak away to make them breakfast, but before he could get away, Aziraphale snatched him back and pinned him, giggling, to the mattress. A furious wrestling match ensued, which turned somehow into sex, gasping and slow. It was so incredibly nice that Crowley didn’t even mind Tracy’s waggling eyebrows and knowing smile when they finally went downstairs.

After breakfast, they drove to Crowley’s house, to do a bit of gardening and…well, whatever they wanted, until it was time for their date that night. Aziraphale insisted on helping, which lasted about half an hour before he muttered something about heat fatigue and retreated to the porch. Crowley, who did not really need help, suggested he go take a shower to cool off and suppressed a smile when Aziraphale’s whole face lit up in relief.

“Are you sure you don’t need me?” he said, already edging towards the door.

“I’m just fine by myself, angel. You’ve got enough clothes here, yeah?”

“Oh, yes. Plenty. Be back in a tick.”

Crowley let his smile spread as the door clicked shut. He felt all the affection inherent in Aziraphale’s offer to stay—Aziraphale would not have offered to get grubby for just anyone—but it felt right, somehow, to have him clean and fresh, sitting prettily by and admiring Crowley while he worked. With renewed vigor, he attacked the weeds nearest his knees. The compost bucket was nearly full, but with a bit of stomping down it ought to hold another handful or two.

Twenty minutes and a trip to the compost bin later, Crowley heard the door open again. He lifted up his straw hat just in time to see Aziraphale, clad now in a light green button-down and khakis, settle down onto the porch swing. He had a glass of water in each hand and a book under his arm. When Aziraphale saw him looking, he smiled, raised one of the glasses of water, and set it carefully down near the edge of the porch.

“For you, darling.”

“Thanks, angel.”

As tempting as the icy water looked, Crowley did not get up for a drink. The weeds were almost all gone; he could finish with them first and then be done for the day. He pulled his hat down (another gift from Aziraphale, who fussed terribly whenever he got a sunburn) and got back to work, occasionally stealing glances at the porch. Aziraphale had begun reading the book he’d brought and was absent-mindedly pushing the swing back and forth with the tips of his toes. He appeared to be totally engrossed, but on the fourth or fifth surreptitious glance, he grinned at Crowley and blew him a kiss. Crowley kept his eyes on the weeds after that.

Finally, when it was starting to get too hot even for Crowley, the last weed popped out of the ground and fell unceremoniously into the bucket. Crowley dumped out the bucket, put it and his gloves away, and headed back to the porch.

“All done, my dear?” Aziraphale said as Crowley chugged his water.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Would you like the rest of my glass, too?”

“Mmm. Mm-hmm.”

When both glasses were drained, Crowley wiped his mouth on his already sweat-drenched collar and sighed in utter contentment.

“You’re the best, angel.”

“I try,” Aziraphale said, smiling. “Why don’t you go inside and have a shower, and then we can have a cuddle while we watch something?”

Crowley, who was in the process of taking off his hat and sunglasses, gasped in mock hurt. “What, you don’t want to cuddle me right now?”

Aziraphale scoffed. “If _I_ were drenched in sweat—”

Crowley opened his arms and began advancing on Aziraphale, a wide, evil grin spreading across his face. Aziraphale shrank back.

“ _Crowley_ …”

“C’mere, angel,” Crowley said sweetly. “I just wanna hug you. Don’t you wanna hug your boyfriend?”

“Don’t you dare, Crowley. Don’t even think about— _hey_!”

Crowley cackled. He had just feinted towards Aziraphale, who’d ducked nimbly under his arms and scrambled behind the porch swing with amazing speed.

“I’ll hug you when you take a shower,” Aziraphale told him sniffily. “Not a moment before.”

“Aw, c’mon, angel. I just want—one!”

At _one_ , Crowley lunged over the porch swing at Aziraphale, who skipped backwards and made a break for the door. Crowley probably could have caught him while he was fumbling with the handle if he hadn’t stepped on his own shoelace and tripped hard, just barely catching himself before he did a full face-plant. He heard Aziraphale pause in the doorway, but when Crowley staggered up, still laughing, he turned tail again and fled.

The chase didn’t last long. Crowley pounded after Aziraphale through the (thankfully empty) house, not caring how much dirt he was tracking in. He caught up at his bedroom door, which Aziraphale was attempting to close in his face.

“Angel!” he shouted as he threw himself against the door, seconds before it could swing shut. “What’s wrong, what did I do? Talk to me, angel—”

“Go—take—a—shower,” Aziraphale grunted. Suddenly, Crowley found himself sliding backwards as an inexorable force on the other side of the door began to push. Without thinking, he shoved an arm through the gap, knocking his corkboard clean off the wall. In almost the same moment, the now-unencumbered door slammed hard into his upper arm.

“Aaaaaaahhhh!”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cried. He flung the door open and rushed through. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to do that, I didn’t see you, are you all right?”

“Fine,” Crowley said through gritted teeth. It hurt, but this was entirely his own fault and he knew it. “I’m going to go take a shower now.”

Aziraphale’s face fell. “Won’t you at least let me see it first?”

Crowley sighed and held out his arm. Aziraphale, predictably, fussed over the spot where the door had hit like he was a child who had fallen off his bicycle until Crowley gave him a long, slow, no-hard-feelings kiss.

“Go pick a movie, angel,” he whispered against Aziraphale’s mouth. “I’ll be right back.”

“Mmm. Okay.”

The pain was already fading by the time Crowley got into the shower. He looked at his arm closely under the running water, imagining the impressive bruise he would surely have in a day or two. _Once he’s over the guilt_ , he thought as he washed his hair, _this’ll make great teasing material._

When he was clean, combed, and shaved, Crowley strolled back to his room in just a towel, dirty clothes tucked under his arm. Aziraphale was sitting on the bed, laptop on his legs, scrolling through Crowley’s terabyte of illegally downloaded movies. He’d put the corkboard back, Crowley noticed, and retrieved the hat and sunglasses from the porch. Crowley smiled to himself as he opened the door to his closet.

“Well, I would love to watch _Pride and Prejudice_ again,” Aziraphale said as Crowley pulled on pants and socks. “But I’m not opposed to watching one of those James Bond movies you like. I like that actor, Daniel what’s his name—”

“Craig. Oooh, fancy him, do ya?”

“No,” Aziraphale said severely. “He’s just a good actor, that’s all. Anyway, it’s your pick. I don’t know what order they go in anyhow.”

“ _Casino Royale_ it is, then. It’s good, don’t worry.”

“Okay. I trust you. Oh! I wanted to ask you something. When I was putting your little notice board back—”

“—thanks for that, by the way—”

“Of course, dear. I saw you had a note on there about calling Kew Gardens. Is that new, or has it been there a month without my noticing?”

Crowley froze in the middle of putting on a shirt.

“Uh. No, it’s new.”

“Oh. So…?”

“They offered me a job,” Crowley said, deciding on the spot to rip the plaster off and get it over with. “Part-time, though.”

Aziraphale gasped. “Crowley! That’s wonderful! Why didn’t you tell me before?”

Crowley fought the urge to roll his eyes. Couldn’t Aziraphale read between the lines?

“Because I’m going to have to turn it down,” he mumbled. “I can’t afford to live in London on what they’re offering. And I haven’t been able to find something else to pick up the slack.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “They ought to think more about that when they make these decisions. But it doesn’t matter. I’ve got family in London; you can stay with them. You remember my uncle and aunt, don’t you?”

Crowley stared at him. He did remember Aziraphale’s uncle and aunt. They were probably the strangest-looking couple he’d ever seen, but they’d treated him like he was family already when Aziraphale brought him home to meet everyone for Christmas. Would they really…?

“I’ll call them today, if you like,” Aziraphale continued, a smile spreading over his face as he watched Crowley’s expression change. “I’m sure we can work something out. They all like you very much, you know.”

“I couldn’t stay there forever,” Crowley croaked. “What if I can’t, I can’t find something, and I have to quit, or…"

Aziraphale set the laptop aside and got up off the bed. The next moment, Crowley found himself being wrapped in a soft, familiar embrace while warm hands stroked up and down his back.

“It would only be for a few months at most, darling,” Aziraphale said quietly. “And then I’d be there for school, and you could live with me.”

Crowley gasped. “But—what if we, we—”

“Broke up? Then we would sit down and work something out, like the adults we are. I won’t let you fall, Crowley.”

Crowley nodded mutely and threw his arms around Aziraphale’s neck. Something stupid was bound to fall out if he opened his mouth, so kept it shut and allowed Aziraphale to pet him, smile at him, kiss him. They ended up on the bed somehow, side-by-side with the laptop sitting forgotten behind them.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said after a while.

“Hmm?”

“I have something I want to tell you. Something I’ve been wanting to say for a long time.”

Crowley stopped breathing. Aziraphale pulled away just far enough to look him in the eyes and stroke his face.

“Something good, darling.”

“…all right.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath.

“I love you, Crowley. I love you very much.”

Something was wrong with Crowley’s heart. Also his lungs, and possibly his eyes as well. Aziraphale seemed to understand that talking was out of the question, because he moved the laptop off the bed and pulled Crowley down to lie next to him.

“You don’t have to say it back,” he whispered in Crowley’s ear. “I just wanted you to know. I meant to say it later, but now seemed as good a time as any. My love.”

“I want to,” Crowley said, cringing as his voice cracked on the last word. He cleared his throat.

“I love you too. Have since…since the very first day.”

“Oh. Oh, darling. Really?”

“Yep. Really.”

“Oh. Crowley, I…I’m…”

“Don’t be sorry, angel. It was… _you_ were worth the wait. Oh no, angel, don’t cry, I’m going to—ah, shit.”

“Sorry, darling. But to be fair, you knew what you were signing up for.”

\--

The rest of the day passed like a glorious dream.

Many months before, during a long car ride, Aziraphale had roped Crowley into one of those silly what-if games—what would you do if you had superpowers, if you were famous, if you were rich, etc. Crowley had moaned and groaned for the first question or two, then realized what kind of opportunity he had on his hands and changed his tune. By the time they got to their destination, he’d gleaned all sorts of useful information to use for dates and presents, including an idea for the perfect anniversary date.

It was not a cheap idea. Not a surprise, given Aziraphale’s gourmet taste in everything. But, Crowley thought, with a few months of careful saving and extra shifts…it could work. When he was satisfied with his calculations, he looked up the number and made the call.

“The Ritz London, how may I help you?”

“Ah, hello, I’d, uh…like to make a reservation for the restaurant. For two, please…”

Making the reservation was easier than keeping it. Crowley’s car broke down twice in the months following, cutting into his precious savings. He refused to tell Aziraphale what his plans were, partly because it was fun keeping him in suspense, and partly because he wasn’t sure if he’d have to switch at the last minute. But he managed to save back up again each time, and when the day came, the reservation was still on and Crowley was ready.

The suit was the first little taste of what was to come. Aziraphale’s reaction when Crowley came out in it was just as good as he’d hoped. On the drive there, Aziraphale probed and guessed at where they were going, never once guessing right. The anticipation made his excitement when they pulled up in front of the restaurant even better. Crowley drank in Aziraphale’s little gasps and bounces like a parched traveller at an oasis, not even minding the sideways look the valet gave his car when he handed over the keys. Someday he would have a car that didn’t look like it had been through the wars, but tonight he couldn’t have cared less.

He grinned as the host showed them to their table, Aziraphale practically vibrating with anticipation on his arm. With his cream suit and golden-blonde hair, he looked perfectly in place against the gold-and-white décor. He knew how to order, too, which was good, because Crowley had never eaten a meal in courses or even heard of half the items on the menu. Not that the food mattered. The real treat was watching Aziraphale’s eyelashes flutter as he took delicate bites of crepes suzette, Norfolk crab, fillet of lamb, and vanilla mousseline.

_Oh, we’re definitely doing this again,_ he thought as he watched Aziraphale hum and sigh. _Just as soon as I can save up enough._

When the bill came, Crowley paid it without looking at the total and leaned back in his chair. He would have been content to stay until the waitstaff threw them out, but when Aziraphale stood and reached for his hand, he happily took it.

“Thank you again, my love,” Aziraphale whispered as they waited for the valet. “That was wonderful.”

“Hngh,” Crowley said. It would take time to get used to hearing Aziraphale say that. “You’re welcome. Again.”

They didn’t say much as they drove out of London. Crowley had been on cloud nine ever since their monumentous conversation earlier, and now, after the successful execution of dinner, he was floating somewhere around cloud eleven or twelve. He was replaying the highlights of the day in his head when Aziraphale, who was holding his hand on his lap, hummed and began to rub one of Crowley’s lacquered fingernails with his thumb. Crowley had painted them a deep red while Aziraphale was getting ready.

“Your nails look so pretty with your suit,” he said, lifting up Crowley’s hand and kissing it. “Why don’t you do them more often? Too much work?”

Crowley squeezed his hand. “Used to do it more. Then I started working in the garden on the regular and they kept getting chipped. And now I do nothing but garden all the time, so.”

“Ah. I suppose I’ll just have to appreciate it more on special occasions, then.”

Crowley smiled and swiped a thumb over his cheek. If he could have bottled the feeling in his chest right now, he was sure he could sell it for a thousand pounds a drop.

“Love you, angel,” he murmured.

A hum, a happy wiggle. “Love you too.”

Comfortable silence fell again. Then Aziraphale’s mobile buzzed. It had done that a few times in the past hour, but Aziraphale hadn’t touched it.

“You can check your mobile, angel,” he said. “I don’t mind. We’re not at dinner anymore.”

“All right, love. If you say so.”

Crowley let go of his hand so he could dig it out of his pocket. A moment later, Aziraphale gasped.

Crowley glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “What? What’s going on?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer. For several long, awful seconds, he stayed absolutely silent—just enough time to send Crowley’s mind into overdrive. Then he began to…giggle?

“Angel?”

Still no response. The giggles were fast becoming a deep belly laugh, the kind that made his chin triple and his face go red. Crowley snorted and focused back on the road.

Eventually, Aziraphale’s laugh turned back into a giggle again, and he locked his mobile and tucked it back into his pocket.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped in between the last of his giggles. “I’ll tell you everything, don’t worry. It was Newt.”

“Is he…all right?”

“He is. Now.”

“…now?”

“Yes. So, it seems that Anathema finally made the announcement, about her family’s plans for her next year—”

“Yeah, yeah, she told me. So what happened? Did he freak out?”

“Oh, no. It wasn’t a surprise; he knows what they’re like. No, _she_ got quite steamed up about it, actually, to the point that she went off about sabotaging her applications for all the American universities. And that, for some reason, induced Newt to open his mouth and tell her he loved her for the first time, right in the middle of her rant.”

Crowley let out a great bark of laughter. Aziraphale giggled a little and went on.

“But she didn’t say it back. She just looked at him with bug eyes and her jaw on the floor, so he panicked and told her it was a joke.”

Crowley choked on his own spit and began to cough. When he could breathe normally again, he wiped his streaming eyes and flapped his hand at Aziraphale.

“Go on, I’m fine.”

“Well, I won’t bore you with the details, but they had a long, ridiculous back-and-forth about it, with poor Newt kept saying all sorts of contradictory things because he wasn’t sure what she wanted to hear. She was on the point of storming out when he decided to lay all his cards out on the table and tell her that he really did mean it. He’s been wanting to for so long, poor thing.”

_There, but for the grace of God, go I_ , Crowley thought wryly. “Then what? Did she say it back?”

“When she had calmed down and was sure that he wasn’t joking around, yes. Everything’s been sorted out now, otherwise I wouldn’t be laughing.”

“Right,” Crowley said absently, reaching out for Aziraphale’s hand. “M’glad they got it figured out.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, taking it. “But you are a _little_ bit smug, aren’t you?”

Crowley tightened his grip on the steering wheel and stared resolutely ahead.

“I knew it!” Aziraphale crowed. “I knew it, I _knew_ it—”

“Aw, c’mon, angel. Let me have my vices.”

“Oh, all right,” Aziraphale said, a smile in his voice. “But only because you have twice the virtues to balance them out. “

“I’m going to remember you said that.”

“My dear, I would never deny it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW1: Fear of potential homophobia that turns out to be unfounded. In the third scene from Aziraphale's perspective, skip from "of course I'm yours" to "But when he saw who it was..."  
> CW2: Crowley gets a door slammed on his arm. In the second scene from Crowley's perspective, skip from "The chase didn't last long," to "Go pick a movie, angel." 
> 
> Hi, guys! Happy Half-Off Chocolate Day. Sorry this took so long; the last few months have been...A Time. But here we are at last! I hope you all enjoyed taking this journey with me. When I finished the first draft of this fic, it was the longest piece I'd ever written, and I'm immensely proud that I've managed to finish it instead of leaving it to rot in the graveyard that is my laptop's Writing folder. However, I don't think I'd have ever finished it without all your lovely encouragement, and I thank every one of you who is reading this right now. Extra-special thanks to ThisIsAWarning706 for telling me nice things and yelling at me to write and generally being a wonderful human <3
> 
> On a related note, I have three other works in progress that I've started since finishing the first draft of this fic, all of which I'm very excited to share, but two of them are quite plot-heavy and I think I need to have complete drafts of them before I post, or I'm sure I'll end up writing myself into a corner by accident. They include, if anyone is interested:
> 
> -an epic-length human AU in a world I've been making up from scratch because I'm a NERD  
> -a darker rewrite of Good Omens where Crowley was not the demon who tempted Eve and stayed stuck in Hell for almost the whole 6000 years  
> -another soft and fluffy human AU where they are lesbians living in California by the Monterey Bay. 
> 
> As such I might be quiet on here for a while, but I'd really love to talk to you all in the meantime! Hit me up if you need a beta; I have a passion for both grammar and Good Omens. Or come just to talk! I'd like that, too :)

**Author's Note:**

> I love comments and kudos, but don't feel pressured! I'm on tumblr as themaybedoctor if you'd like to scream about Good Omens with me :D


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